
OUT YONDER. 



BY 



ISAAC HENDERSON. 




Class 



T> c ■< . '"i. ■ '% 



Copyright 1^" 



COEfRIGHT DEPOSm 



OUT YONDER. 



A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS, 

BY 

ISAAC HENDKRSON. 



(Time, the Present.) 



Copyright 1909 by Marion Henderson 
AS A Dramatic Composition 

Stage and platform rights reserved 



CHARACTERS. ^ 



^^% 
^\^ 






Rodney Trask. 

Richard Fpjnton. 

John Ken yon. 

Lord Anson. 

William Finch, a Servant. 

Gibbons^ a Seryant. 

Margaret Noel. 

Phyllis Trask. 

Lady Clare Richmond. • 

Rose Hildred. 

Miss Trask [Aunt Ann]. 

Guests and Tenantry. 

Act First. — Brentley Hall, near London. 
Act Second. — Mrs. Noel's house in Mayfair. 
Acts Third and Fourth. — A house with a garden 
in Chelsea. 

Between Acts I and II six weeks elapse. 

Between Acts II and III three weeks elapse. 

Between Acts III and IV there is an interval of 
one night. 



OUT YONDER. 



ACT I. 

Scene: An interior with terraee leading to lawn. 
Flowers and palms decorate the room, which 
is rich in tone, is panelled in old oak and ha^ 
the general character of a living room. There 
is an appearance of Spring - time outside. 
TJiere are guests hoth in the room and on the 
terrace. 

Just before the rise of the curtain we hear the 
murmur of voices gradually increasing then 
apparently very near, and a voice shouts, 
"Three cheers for Mr. Rodney!" during which 
the curtain rises, and Rodxey Trask is dis- 
covered standing among those guests who are 
on the terrace. Hi^s manner is gay, and as the 
cheers continue he hows once or twice. 

He is turned in a three-quarters position to 
the audience, and is evidently facing a gather- 
big helotc him. He has a cigarette between 
his fingers. 

Rodney. My dear friends. [Takes whiff of 
cigarette; then throics it away.] It's awfully good 
of you all to come here to-day to wish me luck on 
coming into my inheritance, and I hope you've had 



4 OUT YONDER. 

a pleasant day, and that presently you'll hare a jolly 
good dance. We've been associated so many years 
I feel I'm — well, a sort of patchwork and you've 
sewn in the patches. [Seats himself informally on 
halustrated side-saddle-wise.] There's old Judson 
over there — why, nearly the first thing I can re- 
member is old Jud, waving his spade like a magic 
wand over the bare earth and causing flowers to 
appear such as my astonished eyes had never be- 
held outside my Aunt Ann's best bonnet. [Glances 
towards a dignified gray-haAred lady who stmids in 
the doorway listening. Laughter.'] I'm sure some 
of you women remember that bonnet [female cries 
of assent off] , and the two rosebuds that hung down 
over her left ear! [Female cries of joyful assent.] 
They disappeared, those two buds; did you ever 
hear what became of them? [Laughter , and voice 
^^'Twas said you planted them. Sir."] That's true; I 
plucked them and planted them in Jud's garden 
to get the benefit of his magic wand. [Laughter.] 
That's just what Jud did — ^he laughed; but if I 
remember correctly, my aunt did not laugh. [Looks 
again with twinkling eyes toward his Aunt^ iclio 
shows responsive amusement.] Then there's my 
hunting patch — that was your work, Bill Ruggles. 
Do you remember putting me astride my first 
mount? It seemed a mile to the solid earth. 

EuGGLES [Off]. You've done me credit since, sir, 
[Cheers and cries of "That's so! Right you are 
Bill!" etc.] 



OUT YONDER. 5 

Rodney. Small credit to me ! — I was bullied into 
it. The first time I went for a five-bar gate old 
Rug sung out, ''Go for it, Master Roddy, and if you 
funk it, chuck ridin' and take to croquet!" You 
knew after that I'd take that gate or break my 
neck — you old rascal! And my first pheasant! 
Shall I ever forget it? Many a delightful hour 
you've stood behind me, Paxton, but none so thrill- 
ing as that first one. And I must thank old Finch 
for the devotion he's shown my sister and me dur- 
ing all these years. [Glances towards a white- 
haired servant within> the room whose face heaims 
with importance.^ Good old Finch! Transplanted 
with us from South Africa, he's more than a de- 
voted servant — he's become a cherished old friend. 
[Rises.'] And now a word of one known to you all 
as a loyal friend, and a kind mistress. [Interrup- 
tion of cheers and a voice, ''Three cheers for Miss 
Trask!" — enthusiastic cheers.] I would assure my 
dear aunt on behalf of my sister and myself of our 
deep gratitude for her loving care during these 
past eighteen years. We owe to her all the joy of 
our lives. It is she who has given us love and home 
and friends. Do you wonder that my mind is full 
of her to-day? [Cheers.] And now, good friends 
all, I hope that in the future, — which seems to-day 
so wonderfully unclouded,— we may grow closer to- 
gether year by year, giving to each other the sup- 
port of good-will and friendly esteem. I thank you 
once again, — thank you with all my heart. [Bows 



6 OUT YONDER. 

amid cheers and comes within room, all pressing 
round him and congratulating him.] 

Fenton. Well done, Eodney! 

A Lady [Clapping her hands]. Bravo! Bravo! 

Lord Anson. Quite an eloquent peroration, my 
boy! 

A Guest. Good old Kodney ! 

Another Guest. Not half bad, old chap. 

Phyllis. All aboard for the House of Commons! 
Rodne^^ Express ! No stops ! 

Aunt Ann. Really, Rodney — how did you think 
of that bonnet? 

Rodney [Throwing his arm around her shoulder 
and giving her an impulsive little hug]. Who could 
forget the garden of Eden? [Join^ Lady Clare 
who shyly awaits him.] 

Lady Clare. You talked to them in just the right 
way. 

Rodney [Lightly]. I talked to them just as I 
felt. [Significantly.] And now I want to talk to 
you — just as I feel. 

Lady Clare. But I haven't sewn in a patch. 

Rodney. I think you have — and a very big one. 

Lady Clare [With happy eyes]. I don't quite 
follow you. 

Rodney [With tenderness]. I don't want you to 
follow me — I want you right by my side. 

Lady Clare. That's more mysterious still. 

Rodney. Well, meet me here after all these peo- 
ple have gone. I'm going to the station with them 



OUT YONDER. 7 

and then I'll come back and try to make you under- 
stand. Will you meet me here? 

Lady Clare. If you're not too long, perhaps — 
and I'll ask Phyl to come too, and help me puzzle 
it out. 

KoDNEY. I think I can make you understand. If 
not, we can call in Phyl later. 

Lady Clare [After a pause — seriously]. Very 
well Kodney, I'll come. [Goes up. Eodney joins 
a group. Guests are hegiuning to leave ^ and are 
seen making their adieus to Miss Trask and 
Phyllis up stage. As a depao^ting Guest leases 
Fenton, Lord Anson joins him.] 

Lord Anson. It's hard to realize that Rodney is 
really grown up and launched upon life. How 
quickly the years pass ! 

Fenton. To me, my lord, he seems mature for 
his years. 

Lord Anson. And so he is, but I've watched him 
grow up and that makes all the difference. You 
see, he and Phyllis and my daughter Clare played 
together as soon as they could walk, and they've 
been inseparable ever since. Indeed, I almost feel 
as if Eodney and Phyl belong to me as much as 
Clare herself, and I believe I'm nearly as fond of 
them. 

Fenton. Rodney owes much to your friendship. 
[They sit.] 

Lord Anson. That was an odd provision, by the 



8 OUT YONDER. 

way, that Rodney should not inherit till he was 
twenty-five. 

Fenton. Well, you see, the bulk of his fortune is 
in South Africa, and Rodney will have to look after 
it, and I imagine his father wanted him to come 
down from Oxford and shape into place a bit before 
taking it over. 

Lord Anson. You're probably right — but I'm 
suspicious of everything that man did regarding his 
children. He was so cold-blooded about them. 

Fenton. You mean parting with them after he 
lost his wife. 

Lord Anson. No; I can understand his sending 
his children to be brought up in England, but what 
I can't understand is his never having come to see 
them — not once, Mr. Fenton, in all the years before 
he died. 

Fenton. You knew him well, I suppose? 

Lord Anson. In a sense, yes. We were at Eton 
together and later at Oxford, but his pace grew a 
bit too rapid for me; then he quarrelled with his 
father, and the next thing I heard of him had gone 
to South Africa, married and settled down there. 
So I never saw him again. His wife was, I under- 
stand, a very charming woman. You knew her, 
perhaps? 

Fenton. No, I never knew her; indeed I only 
knew Mr. Trask the last years of his life, and I was 
never more surprised than when he sent for me dur- 
ing his last illness and begged me to be his executor. 



OUT YONDER. 9 

Then, later, as you know, I was appointed trustee 
for his children. But I never knew their mother. 

Lord Axson. It must be from her they get their 
warm, generous natures. 

Fentox. She was, I believe, an impulsive, warm- 
hearted young creature; too much so, indeed. 

Fenton noting the departure from room 
of last Guests, accompanied hy Miss 
Teask and Phyllis, draws from Ms 
pocket a cigarette case^ offering it first 
to LoED Anson, then helping himself. 
This business takes place during the fol- 
lowing words. 
LoED Anson. You mean she suffered in conse- 
quence. 

Fenton. Undoubtedly. 

LoED Anson. Poor lady I — and she was little more 
than a girl when she died. 

Fenton [Striking a match, ichich he hands to 
LoED Anson]. Who told you of her death, my Lord? 
LoED Anson [Lighting his cigarette]. Let me see 
— it was more than twenty years ago — but I think 
— yes, it must have been Miss Trask. Who else 
could it have been? 

Fenton [After lighting his own cigarette]. 
Quite so. 

LoED Anson. I hope you're enjoying your visit 
to the old country? 

Fenton. That goes without saying. I've passed 
most of it here. 



10 OUT YONDER. 

Lord Anson. YouVe not outstayed your welcome. 
Clare tells me they hope to persuade you to stay 
over the summer. 

Fenton. I'm afraid another month is all I can 
give myself. 

LoED Anson. Perhaps something will turn up to 
detain you longer, who knows? 

Fenton. What sort of thing do you suggest? 

Lord Anson. Well, the evident attachment be- 
tween Rodney and my daughter. I imagine he has 
only been waiting for this day to draw the bond 
closer. 

Fenton. May I take it the event would not be 
unwelcome to you, my lord? 

Lord Anson. To be frank, I should be most happy. 
Rodney is a fine fellow, and his familj^ in all es- 
sentials is above reproach. 

So I think you'll have to stay over the summer if 
Rodney has his way. 

Rodney {Coming down]. Over the summer! 

To the end of his natural life, if Rodney has his 
wa}' . Lord Anson, Clare says you needn't wait for 
her this evening. We young people are going to 
watch the tenants dance for awhile, and then after 
dinner, we'll all walk over to the castle with her. 

Lord Anson. Oh, very well. 

Rodney. You're sure you won't stay, too? have 
a quiet dinner with us and see the fun ? 

Lord Anson [Rising]. No, I'm better not out at 
night. I don't want a rheumatic touch as a sou- 



OUT YONDER. n 

venir of this liappy day — but you must come in 
with Clare and tell me about it — so it's only au 
revoir. [Goes up. Exits.] 

Phyllis [Appearing up]. Come, Kodney, every 
one's going. 

EoDNEY. I'm coming. [To Fentox] Wish me 
luck, old man. I hope to have neTrs for you later. 

Fentox. What's up? 

EoDXEY. About Clare, of course. 

Fextox. You mean ? 

RoDXEY. I'm going to clinch matters presently. 

Fextox. No, no, Rodney! You mustn't. See 

7 7 %/ 

me first. 

RoDXEY. ^MiY? What do you mean? 

Fextox. I must see you. I'll wait here. 

Phyllis. Come, Hamlet I This is your brief hour ; 
you're wanted. 

RoDXEY. I'm coming. [To Fextox] What's it 
about? 

Fextox. Never mind now. Come back, will you? 

RoDXEY. Since you insist — but it's devilish odd. 
[Exits.] 

AuxT Axx [TT7?o comes down as Rodxey passes 
out]. What is it? What made him look like that? 

Fextox. He's going to propose to Lady Clare — 
and I asked him to see me first. 

AuxT Axx. But why? 

Fextox. He must be told about his mother. 

Aunt Axx. His mother? What has she to do 
with it? 



12 OUT YONDER. 

Fenton. Does Lord Anson know about the scan- 
dal? 

Aunt Ann. What difference does it make? The 
scandaPs forgotten, and everyone thinks she's dead. 
She is dead to all of us, and the earl approves of 
the match as much as I do. 

Fenton. Rodney must be told the truth about his 
mother. 

Aunt Ann [Aghast]. You mean ? 

Fenton. I must give him certain letters which 
will tell him everything. 

Aunt Ann. You must do nothing of the sort. 
They believe she's dead, I tell you ; and it would be 
wicked and cruel to undeceive them. 

Fenton. These letters are not mine. I'm bound 
to hand them over. 

Aunt Ann. But surely not to-day; let us talk it 
over first. 

Fenton. He must know before he speaks to Lady 
Clare. 

Aunt Ann. Just the contrary. I'll never forgive 
you if you tell him. 

Fenton. He'll never forgive me if I don't. No 
honourable man would. 

Aunt Ann. Mr. Fenton, listen to me; listen to 
reason! This scandal has been dead for years^ — 
these children I've brought up — they're practically 
mine; I've some rights in this affair and I forbid 
your telling them. 

Fenton. God knows I don't want to tell them; 



OUT YONDER. I3 

but outside my duty, isi it wise or kind to keep the 
truth from Rodney? It affects the honour of his 
name. 

Aunt Ann. But it doesn't; his mother took an- 
other name. 

Feinton. But she remains his mother, and her 
disgrace is her children's. 

Aunt Ann. But his father was an honourable 
man, and Rodney bears his name. 

Fenton. Which name the mother besmirched. 
When Rodney knows this, what then? 

Aunt Ann. Nothing. Clare doesn't marry the 
mother — will never see her, or hear of her^ — unless 
through you. 

Fenton. But Rodney's honour is involved. An 
alliance with him might not be thought honourable 
by Lord Anson. If so, Rodney would be in a false 
position and have us to thank for it ; but if Rodney 
knows — and Lady Clare and her father accept him 
with full knowledge — things are as they should be. 
To hide the truth might be disastrous. Rodney 
has a right to know, and I mean to tell him. 

Aunt Ann. But it may upset everything and 
break his heart. 

Feinton. Better his heart than his spirit. 

Aunt Ann. Oh, how hard you men are with 
your sense of so-called honour ! If there were any 
need of bringing this thing up again I'd be the first 
to favour it. But now everyone's to be made 
wretched and nothing served but this silly sense 



14 OUT YONDER. 

of honour ! It's monstrous, and mawkish, and abso- 
lutely wicked ! I can't understand you men ! And 
I'm thankful I can't ! And what's more I'm aio 
fully disappointed in you. 

Fenton. Believe me, Miss Trask, it's hard to 
have to hit you all like this: — for I've grown very 
fond of you all 

Aunt Ann [Grimly^. It looks so! 

Fenton. Of you and Rodney — and Phyllis. 
{Breaks oiit^ To think of having to hit her; to 
hurt little Phyl ! 

Aunt Ann. Phyl? Surely Phyl isn't to know? 

Fenton. She's bound to know, sooner or later. 

Aunt Ann. She must not know — she must never 
know ! She worships her mother's memory — liter- 
ally worships it. It would simply crush her. 
Whatever you do about Eodney you shall not tell 
Phyl. 

Fenton. But suppose she finds it out — suppose 
she should — without being prepared? What an 
awful shock! 

Aunt Ann. But she won't find it out. How 
can she if you and Rodney keep it to yourselves? 
It's been kept a secret all these years, why not now? 

Fenton. That must depend on Rodney. 

Aunt Ann. Not at all! You must make him 
promise. Insist upon it. There must be no doubt 
about it. And you must promise too, for Phyl's 
sake; won't you? 



OUT YONDER. 15 

Fenton. Well — I'll say this — I see no present 
need of telling her. 

Aunt Ann. You must never tell her. 

Fenton. That I can't promise. 

Aunt Ann. Oh, you men I you men I But you'll 
promise not to tell her noio — that at least; and 
then we'll see. 

Fenton. Yes, I promise that. 

Aunt Ann [Extending hmid]. At least, that's 
something I — and remember that I trust you. 
[They strike liand^s as Enter Phyl.] 

Phyllis. Ahem I Ahem! If any person here 
present knows any reason why this man should not 
hold this woman's hand let him now speak, etc., 
etc. 

Fenton. We're congratulating ourselves that our 
responsibility for such a madcap is this day legally 
ended. 

Phyllis. That's all very well, but personal abuse 
doesn't alter facts. [Plants herself on chair. ~\ 
Until my brother comes I must insist upon chap- 
eroning this giddy old lady. Will you wear white, 
Aunty, or be married in travelling costume? 

Aunt Ann [Entering into Phyl's spirit']. It's 
all so sudden, Phyl — I haven't decided details. 

Phyllis. May I be bridesmaid? — and kiss the 
bridegroom? 

Fenton. X ot if / can help it ! 

Phyllis. You'll do as you're told, if she brings 
you up as she has us. 



i6 OUT YONDER. 

Aunt Ann. Where did you leave Kodney? 

Phyllis. DaAvdling outside with Clare. But it 
seems I escaped from the frying pan to plump into 
the fire. It's instructive, but a trifle lonely — for a 
young girl with a warm heart and a willing hand. 

Aunt Ann [2Ioving up stage]. When they 
come in, dear, take Clare to your room. Mr. Fen- 
ton wishes to speak to Kodney. 

Phyllis. To propose a double wedding, I sup- 
pose — and share expenses. 1-11 look about me, per- 
haps I can chip in. 

[Exit Aunt Ann.] 

[To Fenton] Why, oh, why, didn't you fall in 
love with me? 

Fenton. I'm sure I don't know — old age is 
capable of almost any folly. 

Phyllis. I suppose now it's too late? 

FiJNTON. I think, myself, if it were going to hap- 
pen it would have happened. 

Phyllis. Why, oh, why, didn't it happen? 

Fenton. I haven't said it didn't. 

Phyllis. Then why not jilt Aunty and propose 
to me? I'm longing for an experience. 

Fenton. I'll do this for you — I'll consider the 
proposition. 

Phyllis. And I'll do this for you — I'll promise 
not to jump at you. 

Fenton. I shouldn't like to risk it. 

Phyllis. Why not? If I accept you I'll make a 
devoted wife, and I know I can make you happy. 



OUT YONDER. 17 

Fentox. It's possible, of course — I require very 
little. 

Phyllis. And if I refuse you, you still have 
Aunty up your sleeve. 

Fentox. Joking apart — we are great friends, 
aren't we? 

Phyllis. I decline to answer leading questions. 

Fentox. But it is a fact, isn't it? 

Phyllis. I decline to commit myself to anything 
— some day you might taunt me with it. 

Fextox. You mean 

Phyllis. After we're married. I believe it's 
usual — when he's out of temper. 

Fextox^ I wish I might have the chance. 

Phyllis [Snapping him up]. May I take it that's 
a proposal ? 

Fextox. Suppose it were? Suppose I should 
make it stronger? Shall I venture? 

Phyllis. That's for you to say. I'm not doing 
the courting. 

Fextox. Y^ou're keeping up your end pretty well. 

Phyllis [Piously]. I'm not! I always follow 
the golden rule — doing as I'd be done by. 

Fextox. See here, Phyl I You may do too much. 
You may throw dust into my eyes until I rush on 
blindly — recklessly — too far to retrace my steps I 

Phyllis. Ah, this is better. This seems much 
more like it. Yes? Well? 

Fextox. Oh you little torturer! But playing 
with fire is a dangerous game, Phyl. 



i8 OUT YONDER. 

Phyllis. Two and two make four, Dick. 

Fenton. You mean you know what you're doing? 
Oh, I know better. You're just a tease — a, thought- 
less little tease. 

Phyllis. And you, sir? 

Fenton. I'm a maniac — old enough to be your 
father. 

Phyllis. And wise enough — do you think, sir? 

Fenton. No, child, no! There never was such 
a fool as I. 

Phyllis. Stop, sir ! I'll not permit you to abuse 
a friend. 

Fenton. Your friend! — Do you then care for 
your friend? — a little bit? 

Phyllis. I haven't said I don't. 

Fenton. But do you — just a little bit? 

Phyllis. Would you care? 

Fenton [Ardently]. Would I? 

Phyllis. How awfully well you do it ! Any one 
seeing you then would have sworn you meant it. 
You must have practised a good deal. 

Fenton [Pulling himself together]. Oh yes, of 
course — and in another second I'd have rattled off 
my usual speech. 

Phyllis. How does it run? Can you remember 
it? 

Fenton. I think so. I think I should have said 
— w^ell, something like this: [Becoming serious] 
But I'm afraid to tell you for fear of frightening 
you and losing even the friendship which is so much 



OUT YONDER. 19 

to me, for I believe we're friends^ Pliyl; right good 
chums, too. Although I'm so much older than you, 
I believe jou know me better than anyone else 
does. Think of the talks we've had — hour upon 
hour, in every mood. Yes — just as I am, you know 
me. With you I've forgotten difference of age — for 
you're a womanly little person, Phyl, and under 
your gay spirits is a nature so rich and true that 
any man who probes it must honour it and love it. 
And I love it, Phyl. But I've nothing to offer you 
— and I'm wise enough to know it — and to try to 
rest satisfied with friendship. Yes, I'll be your 
trusted friend, to whom you'll turn in any trouble 
that may come to you — ^as it may, who knows? — 
when you'll find, perhaps, some help in one who 
knows you and cares for you as I do. [Feigning 
light mood again] There ! that's the speech, brought 
up to date and trimmed to suit the circumstances. 
It's not a bad speech, you know, as speeches go — 
and a girl less clever than you might be taken in by 
it. [Serious again] But, if I had been younger, 
and more worthy of you — who knows? 

Phyllis [Seriously]. No — I'm not going to chaff 
about it — for I believe you meant it — for I do know 
you — and I — I know you now better than ever. I 
hadn't an idea you really cared. I, somehow, 
hadn't thought about it. What must you think of 
me! — the way I've been talking? I only wish [tcith 
quivering lip] — I only wish — [breaking aicay]. 
But never mind! — only you're not half so wise as 



20 OUT YONDER. 

you seem to think you are — or perhaps you are, and 
it's I who am stupid. You've nearly taken my 
breath away ! But you want to talk to Eodney — I'll 
find him and tell him you're waiting for him. And 
— and I hope you don't think I'm simply a silly girl 
who wants to dance through life — but I know you 
don't — you said so, and I'm glad of that. I'm glad 
you told me that — and that you think of us as 
chums — for that's more than friends and — I'm glad 
you feel towards me like that. Ah, there they 
are! Goodbye — ^^and — and — goodbye. [Looks at 
Mm longingly y waves hand and exits. Fenton sinks 
into an armchair wonderingly. Enter Rodney 
'briskly.'] 

Rodney. Hello ! — having a nap ? 

Fenton. I think I was dreaming a bit. 

Rodney [Throwing himself into a chair]. Now 
fire away, for I've an appointment with Clare pres- 
ently. 

Fenton. I want to speak of some letters, Rodney; 
written eighteen years ago to your father by your 
mother. 

Rodney. Is that all? Then what was the hurry? 
And what was all your mystery about? 

Fenton. I thought you ought to know their con- 
tents before speaking to Lady Clare. 

Rodney. What are you driving at? 

Fenton. Every family has its skeleton, you 
know ; and yours is no exception. 

Rodney. How on earth can that affect Clare? 



OUT YONDER. 21 

Feinton. Your father, I fear, led a pretty gay 
life before his marriage — and after it, too, and he 
neglected your mother. 

Rodney [Constrainedly'], Even if he did, why 
need I know of it? 

Fbnton. Your mother was young, and proud, 
and resented your father's neglect. 

Rodney. Well — what's your point? 

Fenton. You know the danger of such condi- 
tions. There's always someone about ready to eon- 
sole a neglected wife. 

Rodney. Oh, I see. She drifted into some fool- 
ishness; — is that it? 

Fbnton. Yes, with an Einglishman named Ken- 
yon — John Kenyon — a married man who was pass- 
ing the winter in Kimberley without his wife. I 
understand he and his wife didn't hit it off very 
well, and that he fell madly in love with your 
mother — who seems to have been equally attracted 
to him. 

Rodney. I'm sorry to hear of it, of course, — 
very ; but how does it all affect Clare and me? — I'm 
not likely to neglect her, and she doesn't go in for 
flirting — if that's what worries you. 

Fenton. Your mother, I'm sorry to say, seems 
to have lost her head — completely, and things be- 
came serious — ^very. 

Rodney. That's all right, old man; but I don't 
think I care to hear any more. It can't do any good 
raking up an old affair like that, so you'd better 



22 OUT YONDER. 

destroy those letters. It ended all right — that's all 
I care to know. 

Fenton. Unfortunately — it didn't end all right. 

KoDNEY. How was that? 

Fenton. Your mother became estranged from 
your father and came to England, and — well — she 
wrote these letters then — and they explain every- 
thing. 

EoDNEY. Oh, blow the letters! How did it end? 
How long did she stay away from Kimberley? 

Fenton. She never returned again. 

EoDNEY. Never returned ! My dear Fenton ! My 
mother died at Kimberley — we know all the details. 
My aunt went out there after my mother's death, 
and because my father decided to break up the 
home. She brought Finch back with us, and he 
has told us all about our mother — what a lovely 
woman she was, and what a beautiful death she 
died, and how heartbroken my father was — every- 
thing — every detail. And now you tell me this 
cock-and-bull story ! Keally, my dear chap, if you 
don't mind my saying it — ^you're talking quite in 
the air. 

Fenton. I fear not, Rodney. I fear that Finch 
— all honour to his kind heart — has been using his 
imagination rather than the facts, which he knew 
only too well. 

Eodney. But there's my aunt! She says the 
same thing — every word of it. 

Fenton. Are you sure? — or has she simply not 



OUT YONDER. 23 

contradicted Finch? As a fact, I've just been talk- 
ing to your aunt about it. 

KODNEY. Well? 

Fenton. Miss Trask has never seen your mother 
— but after your mother's flight — — 

EoDNEY. "Flight"? my mother ran away? 

Fenton. Yes, she ran away, and then your 
father wrote to his sister begging her to come out 
and help him in regard to you and Phyl, who was 
quite a baby at the time; and your aunt went out 
to Kimberley, and it ended in her bringing you 
both back with her, and that's the whole story, so 
far as that part is concerned. The other part is 
here [indicating letters]. 

KoDNEY. What other part is there? 

Fenton. Rodney, old man, I'd give ten years of 
my life to get out of telling you. But someone 
must — and I've made up my mind to do it. 

Rodney [Strainedly]. All right, Fenton, if 
you've got to hit me harder, do it, and be done with 
it. 

Fenton. The fact is your mother did not go 
away alone. 

Rodney. I understand, of course; — she ran 
away with that fellow you spoke of? 

Fenton. Kenyon. 

Rodney. And came to England. 

Fenton. Yes. 

Rodney. And never went back. 

Fenton. Never. 



24 OUT YONDER. 

EoDNEY. And died here. 

Fenton. No. 

EoDNEY. Well, somewhere ! — she died. 

Fenton. No. 

EoDNEY. No? [Patise — blinking and wiping 
hroiD loith handkerchief as if faint and da^ed.] 
Well?— out with it! 

Fenton. Your poor mother, Rodney, is not dead. 
They are living together now. 

Eodney. Wait a moment, Fenton! — Just wait a 
moment. I — I need to get things straight a bit. I 
don't seem to be able quite — to — to get clear in my 
mind what you're saying. What's that again about 
my mother? 

Fenton. She is alive — in London — under the 
protection of the man Kenyon, with whom she ran 
away. 

Eodney. I see! — so that's it. She's not dead — 
my mother's not dead — she is living now — ^my 
mother is alive — and vrith that — damned man! — 
Ugh! [Pauses — tries to collect himself then 
speaks as steadily as possible.] Is he still with 
her? 

Fenton. He lives with his wife, but your mother 
is under his protection. [Eodney winces.] 

Eodney. Can you tell me where to find her? 

Fenton. Why? 

Eodney. I don't know. 

Fenton. Will you reckon with the man? 

Eodney. I don't know. 



OUT YONDER. 25 

Fbnton. Take time, Eodney, speak with me 
again. 

EODNEY. Is there anything more to tell? 

Fenton. You know everything. 

KODNBY. Then we'll not speak of it again, just 
yet — if you don't mind. I'll thrash it out alone. 
I'd rather. Of course Phyl mustn't know yet. 
[Nearly overcome.] Poor, poor little Phyl! 

Fenton. Perhaps there will be no need of telling 
her at all. 

Rodney [Collecting himself]. I must think it all 
out. I can't decide things now. I'm afraid I'm 
not feeling quite up to it. 

Fenton. You think I was right in telling you? 

Rodney. Dead right. And it's been hard, I'm 
sure, and I'm grateful to you. It ends everything 
— everything ; but I had to know and you were dead 
right in telling me in time. [Lip trembles ^ but he 
recovers himself] I'm expecting Clare, you know, 
and I'd like to pull myself together a bit. You un- 
derstand? 

Fenton. My dear Rodney! [Going — pauses] If I 
can help you — you'll let me, won't you? 

Rodney [Extending his hand which Fenton 
clasps] . That's all right. 

Ewit Fenton, as Rodney sinks into chair 
and looks with strained eyes straight 
out. Then as if fighting his tears he rises 
and walks back and forth across the 
roomy literally stamping back his tears. 



26 OUT YONDER. 

Enter Lady Clare, hack. She watches 
Mm in an amused way. Then he sud- 
denly flings out his arms with a deep 
gromv. Amazed and terrified she conies 
down quickly to him. 
Lady Clare. Rodney ! What is it? What's the 
matter? 

He turns to her with agonised yearning in 
his face, half stretches out his arms to 
her — then as she instinctively half raises 
her arms with an answering look of love, 
he pulls himself together and forcing a 
chmige of expression and a smile sa/ys, 
as conventionally as possible. 
Rodney. Oh — oh, it's you, Clare? 
Lady Clare. What is it? Aren't you well? 
Rodney. Well? {Lawgiving'] I'm the soundest 
chap alive, and longing for the dance — dancing's 
the thing — where are the others? Why don't they 
come? 

Lady Clare. I — I came early as I promised. 
Rodney. Yes — of course — I — I — asked you to 
come, because — because on a jolly day like this, 
one doesn't want to be alone — one wants to keep 
the pot a-boiling. 
Lady Clare. Rodney! 

Rodney {Collecting himself]. Clare, I've startled 
you — forgive me — since I saw you my whole life is 
changed. Fenton has just told me something that 



OUT YONDER. 27 

changes everything. I've got to think things out, 
but of one thing I'm sure now — I can't say to you 
to-night what I had hoped to say — you know what 
it was — but it's got to rest there. Don't tell any- 
one I'm in trouble for I want to keep it from Phyl 
— at least for the moment. I need time to think 
— but help me to get through the festivities for I'm 
a bit upset. I simply must forget it or I'll spoil 
everything. Help me to keep up, Clare I Help me 
to keep from thinking. [With return to previous 
manner as Enter Finch who switches on lights] 
That's right, Finch, switch on the lights — every 
blessed one of them. That's far jollier. 

During the foregoing speech^ the grounds 
outside have suddenly been illuminated 
inth coloured lights. During Rodney^s 
talk with Fexton^ sunlight has changed 
to suwset, and afterwards to early twi- 
light, so that outside it is just a little 
grey tcith distant red streaks in the sky 
ichen the illuminations are turned on. 
In the room it is darker. Music is 
heard outside, growing nearer as the 
Band approaches. ^Yith it, as it draws 
nearer, comes the murmur of happy, 
laughing voices. The tenants^ dance 
evidently begins on the lawn. 
Finch. You're in gay spirits to-night, sir. 
Rodney. Spirits, Finch I Why shouldn't I be in 
spirits? 



28 OUT YONDER. 

Finch. It's been a great day, sir. 

KODNEY. This day, Finch? This is the day we've 
talked of for years, Finch, for years! When I 
should come into my own. The happiest day of my 
life. Finch! [Laughs bitterly and hysterically.] 

Finch. There's a happier one to come, sir. 

Rodney. And when is that? To-morrow? 
[Laughs bitterly.] 

Finch. The sooner the better, sir, say I ; and the 
wedding bells shall ring out . . . 

Rodney [Rushing on]. Listen to him, Clare. The 
old beggar's turning sentimental! He wants to 
chain me down again just as I'm free. No, Finch, 
no! My life begins to-morrow. To-morrow! But 
I'm for to-day — to-night — this moment ! Where are 
the others? Why don't they come? Ah, here they 
are! Let's join the dance, Clare! [Music has been 
growing faster and madder. To Phyl and Fenton 
who enter with Miss Teask] Come on ! Come on ! 
Everyone! [To Clare] Come, Clare. We'll lead the 
way. [Seizes her hand] We'll show them what 
dancing's like! Come! [Seizes her and they rush 
to terrace and off, she laughing and he shouting] 
Play faster, there ! faster ! [Music quickens] That's 
more like it! Faster! Faster! Faster! [Music 
still quicker. Exit Rodney and Clare] Keep it up. 
Keep it up ! Faster ! Faster ! [Shouts of merri- 
ment and excitement. Swirling music] 

[As Fenton and Aunt Ann, on entering , 
see Rodney's excitement^ they exchange 



OUT YONDER. 29 

a glance of understanding , and Fenton, 
to hack Mm up and to throw dust in 
Phyl's eyes, responds to Eodney's ap- 
parent mood, and seizing her hand, 
swirls her of after Kodney and Clare. 
Aunt Ann goes to balustrade of terrace 
and looks after them anxiously.'] 



QUICK CURTAIN. 



Between Acts I and II six weeks pass. 



ACT II. 

[Siw w^eeks later.'] 

Scene : A room in the house of Margaret Noel. It 
is luxuriously furnished. There is a door right. 
A low tea-table on which is a silver tea-service 
laid on a lace-hordered cloth is slightly to left 
of centre. Near by is a comfortable ohair. 
Various signs of culture are in evidence. Mar- 
garet is discovered standing near a table ^ u. c, 
reading a note; she finishes it, bends and smells 
some flowers — France roses and mignonette — 
on the table, then goes to a secretary and takes 
out another note and glances through it. While 
she is reading the second note. Enter Gibbons. 

Gibbons [Announcing']. Mrs. Hildred. 

[Margaret slips note inside of a book on 
table and turning, greets guest.] 
Margaret. Oh, Kose. 

KosE [Adioancing]. Good morning, dear [^em- 
braces Margaret] . 

Margaret [Leading her towards sofa]. Well, 
how did my little dinner go off? 

[Takes her own chair near tea-table.] 
Rose. Delightfully! I enjoyed myself so much. 
How nice Mr. Reynolds is. 

Margaret [Warmly]. Isn't he a charming boy? 
Rose. I liked his friend, Mr. Fenton, too. 



OUT YONDER. 31 

Margaret. He terrifies me, rather; he's so ut- 
terly sane. 

Rose. That's more than you can say for the boy; 
he's quite mad — so far as you're concerned. 

Margaret. Nonsense! I'm old enough to be his 
mother. 

Rose. But you're young enough to be fascinating. 
I couldn't keep my eyes away from you any more 
than the boy could. What's come over the demure 
Mrs. Noel? — flirting in her old age — and with a 
boy? 

Margaret. Don't talk like that; you know I'd 
not flirt with a boy or anyone. 

Rose. I thought I knew it — until lately. 

Margaret, Can't you understand the friendship 
— even affection — of a boy for an elder woman, 
and her accepting it as it's meant? 

Rose. Not when the little boy is twenty-five, and 
old for his age — and the old lady looks as young 
as you do. 

Margaret. Then take my word for it — he and I 
understand each other perfectly. 

Rose. And you accept his devotion as it's meant, 
eh? 

Margaret. Precisely. 

Rose. How is it meant? — that's the point. Has 
he ever told you? 

Margaret. He doesn't need to; I understand. 

Rose. And he loves you like a mother? 

Margaret. Well 



32 OUT YONDER. 

EosE. Or perhaps a grandmother? — there's no 
telling in a bucolic attachment of this sort. 

Margaret. Don't be tiresome. 

EosE. I think I'll set my cap for Mr. Fenton; 
he may be longing for a great-aunt; who knows? 

Margaret. Jeer, if you like. 

EosE. How long have you known Mr. Eeynolds? 

Margaret. Friendship's not a matter of the cal- 
endar. 

EosE. That's the talk of a schoolgirl — not of his 
grandmother. 

Margaret. Eeally, Eose, aren't you going a bit 
far? 

EoSE. I don't care if I am. I happen to be fond 
of you, and you seem to have lost your head. I see 
trouble before you, and I don't like it. 

Margaret. You dear thing I Of course, I know 
you're speaking in friendship — but you don't under- 
stand. Believe me, I've not lost my head — so don't 
worry. This charming boy and I do really under- 
stand each other. I don't hope to persuade you of 
it — but I feel it, and I know it. He's the most 
charming, high-minded, fascinating boy I've ever 
known ; he appeals to me in an extraordinary way ; 
but to suggest flirtation, or anything unworthy of 
this friendship, is to misunderstand it; for it's the 
sweetest sentiment that's ever come into my life. 
I feel, somehow, that it has a touch of sacredness 
in it — and it hurts me to hear you speak lightly of 
it. So don't do it, please. 



OUT YONDER. 33 

KosE. I hope you^re not deceiving yourself — and 
what am I to say to others? Everyone we know is 
talking about it. I can't tell people he wants you 
to be a gTandniother to him. 

Margaret. Let them talk, I don't care. [7m- 
pressively] At least they shan't interfere. No one 
shall do that! 

EosE. I fear you're laying up trouble for your- 
self. 

Margaret. Why? 

Rose. Well — what does John Kenyon think of 
it? 

Margaret. He doesn't think of it. I've written 
him about Mr. Eeynolds, of course, but he's never 
even referred to him. 

Rose. Have you seen Mr. Kenyon this morning? 

Margaret. He's in Scotland ; he's been there for 
weeks, — I thought you knew. 

Rose. But he's come back. 

Margaret. No ; he's to be there another fortnight. 

Rose. I met Colonel Rogers this morning and he 
told me they came up together by the Night Ex- 
press. 

Margaret. They did? — how odd he didn't let me 
know. 

Rose. It seems he doesn't half like your friend- 
ship with Mr. Reynolds. 

Margaret. Who says so? 

Rose. Colonel Rogers. 

Margaret. Then Colonel Rogers is mistaken. 



34 OUT YONDER. 

EosE. I only repeat what he said. 

Margaret. Colonel Kogers is mistaken. I think 
I know John Kenyon, and he knows me. 

Rose. He's a man, and men are 

Margaret [Interrupting]. Not John Kenyon, — 
and surely not of a boy. 

EosEi. Let us hope not. 

Margaret. If it w^ere true I'd never forgive him. 

RosEi. There you are ! — there's trouble at once. 

Margaret. There'll be no trouble. He'll be aw^- 
fully ashamed of himself. 

EoSE. Why? — because he doesn't believe in 
grandmothers ? 

Margaret. Eose, that's offensive after what I 
said. 

EoSE. I can't help it; you're so fatuous about 
this thing. You, of all women! — head and shoul- 
ders above any other Avoman I've ever known; — 
3^ou, my Margaret Noel, suddenly descend to the 
level of the brainless, sentimental creatures we've 
so often talked about; and, for the sake of a boy, 
become the biggest fool of them all. 

Margaret [Interrupting]. But^ — — 

EosEi. No ; hear me out ! You must stop this folly. 
You owe it to yourself — and even to me, who have 
looked up to you so. If you fail me, Margaret, 
what's the use of anyone believing in anyone? 

Margaret. I'm not going to fail you. You sim- 
ply don't understand. 

EosE. What is there to understand? Isn't it the 



OUT YONDER. 35 

old story of platonic affection, which is merely 
love peptonised for feeble digestions? Are you go- 
ing to feed John Kenyon that stuff? — If so, I, for 
one, won't blame him for not swallowing it. 

Margaret. Rose, there is something to under- 
stand, I'm sure of it — and yet I'm not sure of it. 
I'll tell you something — something very, very in- 
timate — and perhaps you'll be able to advise me. 
I'm very troubled about something — ^and yet there 
may be nothing in it. Any way, I'll tell you every- 
thing and 3^ou shall judge. The beginning you 
know^: How Lord Keam brought Mr. Reynolds to 
our box that night of the ^-Meistersinger." The next 
day Mr. Reynolds sent me some flowers — France 
roses and mignonette — and this note — [Takes hook 
into which she had thrust notes o)v Rose's eivtrance~\ 
— a strange, little note. {R€ads'\ "I send you 
these flowers because I want them to carry you 
a message. They spring from nature as does their 
message. Rodney Re^^nolds." — Rodney ! How that 
name struck me and clung to me. I kept repeating 
it to myself all that daj^, and the next, and the 
next. 

Rose. But why? 

Margaret [With a slightly perceptihle break m 
voice']. It was my little son's name. 

Rose. And the message? 

Margaret. I couldn't guess it, try as I would. — 
You know what friends we've become, but he has 
sent me no more flowers until to-dav. While I was 



36 OUT YONDER. 

at breakfast these came, and with them this book 
and this note. [Eeads] ^^I send you again France 
roses and mignonette, my mother^ s favourite 
flowers. Eodney.'' 

Rose. They're your favourite flowers, too, aren't 
they ? 

Margaret. Yes. It's a strange coincidence 
rather 

EosE. Very — and the book? [Margaret extends 
hook which Rose takes] Poetry, — page turned 
down, — some lines marked. 

Margaret. I'll read them to you. [Rose hands 
her the hook and Margaret reads poem.] 



^i( 



Oh Mother, my love, if you'll give me your hand 
And go where I ask you to wander, 
I will lead you away to a beautiful land: — 
The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder. 

We'll walk in a sweet posy garden out there 
Where moonlight and starlight are streaming, 

And the flowers and the birds are filling the air 
With the fragTance and music of dreaming. 

So Mother, my love, let me take your dear hand. 
And away through the starlight we'll wan- 
der — 

Away through the mist to the beautiful land, 
The dreamland that's waiting — out yonder." 



'Eugene Field. 



OUT YONDER. Z7 

KosE. Margaret! 

Margaret. Yon understand better now? 

KosE. Yes. — Much better. 

Margaret. Still it may be mere coincidence. — He 
may be some other Eodnej of the same age as mine 
— [hitterli/] and we'll have a good laugh about it 
afterwards. 

Rose [Quietly — impressively]. I doubt there be- 
ing much to laugh at — afterwards. When will he 
come again? 

Margaret. This afternoon. [LooJcs at clocTc] 
He's due now. But supposing it's all true, you 
don't seem a bit glad about it. 

EosE. It means so much to all of us — even to me. 

Margaret. What do you mean? 

EosE [Breakmg ouf]. Why, Margaret, dear, don't 

you see ahead? — don't you realise 

[Door opens.l 

Margaret. Hush! 

[Enter Servant.] 

Servant. Mr. Eeynolds. 

[Enter Eodney Trask.] 
[They are all under great constraint , which 
is shoicn hy an ultra conventional ma/n- 
ner and tone of voice.] 

Margaret. Thank you so much for the lovely 
flowers. 

Eodney. If they have given you pleasure I must 
thank them. [Bowing stiffly to Mrs. Hildred] 
How do you do? 



38 OUT YONDER. 

Rose. And good-bye, for I must be running away. 

Rodney. I'm afraid IVe interrupted a tete-a- 
t^te. 

Rose. No, I was just going. [To Margaeet] 
Good-bye, dear. [Kisses her. Rodney straightens 
up slightly^ as if the act grated on him. Margaret 
touches an electric hell on tahle near her and Rod- 
ney opens door for Rose.] 

Rose. Thank you. [Exits. Rodney closes door, 
and turning^ he and Margaret regard each other 
long and fixedly. Then the assurance in MarGxVret^s 
mind becomes greater, then absolute^ and she half 
raises her arms toicards him, and he cries out.] 

Rodney. Mother! [As he would seize her in his 
arms, she suddenly pauses and f^ecoils.] 

Margaret. But you know? 

Rodney. Everj^thing. 

Margaret. That I 

Rodney. Don't mother — speak only of the future. 

Margaret. You don't loathe me? 

Rodney. Loathe my mother I [She goes 
into his arms.] 

Margaret [Presently^ looking ujy]. You can 
really care for me? 

Rodney. I love you as only a mother can be 
loved. 

Margaret. Rodney! My own Rodney! [Sinks 
again into his embrace] To think that we belong 
to each other; we're part of each other; you're my 
child — my own, own son. [Tremulously] I re- 



OUT YONDER. 39 

member so well the morning you were born — and 
the thrill of the first time 3^our little cheek touched 
mine — and it's you — actually you — that baby's you, 
and you're my very, very own ! [Sobs once or twice 
and adds brokenly] I can't help being a baby my- 
self, I'm so happy. 

EoDNEY. Mother — Ah, mother, my love ! 

Margaret [Notices one of his hands]. You've my 
hands, [looking at him critically] and your eyes 
and the shape of your head are like your grand- 
father's — on my side — I'm glad of that. Your voice, 
too, is like his. Altogether you're just as I would 
have you. And what is Phyllis like? — like me at 
all? 

KoDNBY. Oh, Phyl's all right; in fact, she's rather 
pretty. But she's not your type, she's rather the 
perky sort ; but she's a dear ! 

Margaret. And you and she are great friends? 

EoDNEY. We're great chums. 

Margaret. Dear little Phyllis! Does she ever 
speak of — of her mother? 

KODNEY. She has been taught to believe that you 
are dead, and she has raised an altar to you in her 
heart and placed your image on it. You are her 
guardian angel. She dreams of you, talks of you 
and tries to be worthy of you 

Margaret. Don't — ^clon't. Don't tell me any 
more — ^talk to me of yourself. Tell me that you love 
me — tell me what you like about me — just as I am 
— just as you see me. 



40 GUT YONDER. 

Rodney. The first time I saw you I fell in love 
with 3^ou. I loYe your personality, your eyes, your 
smile, the very way your hair falls over your fore- 
head, the poise of your head, and best of all, your 
voice! Oh, that just makes my heart jump! To 
think — to think you're really mine, and I'm never to 
lose you again ! 

Margaret. Don't let's think of the future — let's 
just revel in the present. 

Rodney. But the future means always being to- 
gether. It means day after day like this. 

Margaret. All the same I don't want to think — 
[Laying her cheek against his shoulder] I only 
want to dream. 

Rodney [Very tenderly and significamtly]. 

"Mother, my love, if you'll give me your hand 
And go where I ask you to wander, 
I'll lead you away to a beautiful land, 

The Dreamland that's waiting out yonder.'' 

[Pauses sufflcientl/y to mark end of poetry.] 

A land of rest, mother dear, where the day- 
dreams bring no sadness and love has no regret. 
There you shall dream to your heart's content. 

Margaret. Ah, how sweet it sounds. 

Rodney. I've prepared a little home. Shall I tell 
you of it? 

Margaret. Yes. 



OUT YONDER. 41 

KODNEY. The house in itself isn't much, but the 
garden is charming, with flowers, plenty of them, 
and some fine old trees, and a lawn with turf like 
velvet, and here and there a bench to loll upon — 
just the place for afternoon tea together; and 
there's a tennis court for Phyl, and you shall be 
head gardener — that is — [deliberate ^ slight pause] 
— if Finch permits. 

Margaret [Starting]. Finch? — surely not 

Rodney. The same old Finch; of course grown 
older and very white. He's brought us up, Phyllie 
and me, and now he's in the home to welcome you. 

Margaret. But — — 

Rodney. He's talked of you all our lives, and 
Phyl's ideal is what he's told her of you. 

Margaret [Slowly] . Oh, how good of him ! 

Rodney. He regards me as his personal asset — 
and Fm afraid of him; but Phyl bullies him right 
and left, and she's the apple of his eye. 

Margaret. Dear little Phyl! Do you think — 
would she ever 

Rodney. She'll love you with all her heai't. 

Margaret. If I could hope for that, I'd try — 
Oh, how I'd try — to satisfy her; but those terrible 
ideals of hers — they would paralyse me. 

Rodney. The real mother will embody^ those 
ideals. 

Margaret. It's too late. 

Rodney. The future is your own. 

Margaret. But the Past? 



42 OUT YONDER. 

KoDNEY. She needn't know the Past — all of it. 
She need only know that being nnhappy, you left 
3^our home and have lived here ever since. 

Masgaret. But there's so much to explain — and 
in the end she's sure to leai^n the truth, and young 
girls are so pitiless. 

Rodney. When once she knows you as I do — she 
will love you in spite of everything. 

Margaret. I knov/ my sex. 

Rodney. And I know Phyl. 

Margaret. You've all the splendid confidence of 
youth ; I wish I could share it. 

Rodney. I've the confidence of one who knows 
Phyl — and you tmll share it. 

Margaret. Where is this charming home? — in 
England? 

Rodney [After slight pause]. In London. 

Margaret. London ? 

Rodney [Feeling his ivuy more and more]. Yes, 
why not? We're going to live forwards, not back- 
wards, and we shall have nothing to hide — [risking 
it] — and no one to hide from. 

Margaret [Pause — then starting away]. Rod- 
ney ! — Rodney I [^he stands aghast^ realising 
realities^ he watching her with eager inte'nsity — 
presently the cry breaks from her] It's no use — it^s 
no use — dreaming's not for me! [She starts a<nd 
changes expression at sound of voice off.] 

Kenyon [Off]. Announce me? — certainly not! 
— Were those your orders? 



OUT YONDER. 43 

Margaret. Oh! 

Gibbons [Off]. Oh, no, sir, only I thought, 
sir 

Kenyon [Interrupting] . Quite so. That will do. 
[Door opens quickly and enter Kenyon. ROdney 
on hearing voice has listened intently — he stiffens 
himself as under sudden intense emotion , then 
stands, ivatching entrance of Kenyon.] 

Margaret [With trepidation]. Oh, John — John 
— what do you think ?^ — My — son — has come — he's 
here 

Kenyon. So you're her son, eh? — That explains 
things. Rumour had brought me everything but 
that. May I ask why you're here? 

Rodney [Who has stood looking steadily at 
Kenyon breaks into laughter]. Well — I like that! 
— Why am I here! [seats himself sideioays on arm 
of chair near tea-table — assumes amusement] — 
Well, let me see; Why am I here? — Why, to enjoy 
a chat with our charming hostess — and a cup of 
her good tea, and — and a crumpet. The crumpets 
here are really excellent. Now what brings you — 
the same attractions? 

Kenyon [Firmly]. Kindly answer my question. 

Rodney [Rising]. I'll ring for tea, mother — and 
the crumpets. 

Kenyon [Sternly]. Stop! [Rodney pauses.] 

Rodney [Turning and looking quizzically speaks 
to Margaret, as if a\side]. Who is our eccentric 
guest? I failed to catch his name. 



44 OUT YONDER. 

Margaret. It is Mr. Kenyon. 

EoDNEY. Kenyon — Kenyon? I don't remember 
meeting him before. Who is the insistent Mr. Ken- 
yon? 

Kenyon. Come, come^ sir! I want a plain an- 
swer to a plain question. Why are you here? 

Margaret. He's my son 

Kenyon \^Interrupting~\. Don't interfere. 

Eodney {Amiably']. Yes, I'm this lady's son. 

Kenyon. Be serious, sir ! 

KoDNBY. I am serious. [^Leans across chadr and 
takes lump of sugar from table — nibbles it — swings 
foot slightly] I'm her son. — Her only son. — Her 
only son and heir. 

Kenyon. What does this buffoonery mean? 

Eodney [To Margaret, as though perplexed]. 
May I ask this gentleman's standing in your house? 

Margaret [Sliotoing distress]. He^ — why — 
Oh, surely you know. 

Eodney. Kenyon — Kenyon — I fear you must ex- 
plain further. 

Kenyon. I'll explain! I'm this lady's protector 
against all intruders — even her son ! 

Margaret. Oh, John ! 

Eodney [A note of hardness creeping through 
buffoonery]. My mother's "protector"? That's a 
strange office in my mother's house. Oh ! [With re- 
turn to previous voice] You mean you're her 
bailiff. 



OUT YONDER 45 

Kenyon. I mean just what I say. So state your 
business here. 

Margaret. Eemember that you speak to my son. 

KoDNEY. There, didn't I tell you so? Now per- 
haps you'll believe me. By the bye, your name 
comes back to me. There was a chap named Ken- 
yon out home. I've heard my friend Fenton tell 
about him. He was pals with my father. But he 
turned out a bad lot. Would you believe it ! One 
day when father was away from home this chap 
Kenyon found something he coveted in the house 
and made off with it. Fancy ! — the man my father 
trusted, and made a friend of and believed to be a 
man of honour, turning out a common thief — and of 
a low sort at that. 

Kenyon. What was "stolen" as you call it was 
something your father hadn't the sense to value, 
and he deserved to lose it. 

KoDNEY. Of course you don't mean that. Bailiff 
— or we'd have to keep an eye on our spoons, mother 
and I. 

Kenyon. Son or no son, have a care ! 

Margaret. John, he is my son and you must not 
forget it. 

Kenyon. I see! You count on your mother to 
protect you. 

EODNEY [Throioing off huffoonery — sternly']. 
From you? I haven't been thinking of you. I've 
been thinking of my mother ; watching for the work- 
ing of her natural instinct. 



46 OUT YONDER. 

Kenyon [Sarcmtically], Indeed. Then if you're 
quite ready, perhaps you'll honour me with your 
attention. 

EoDNEY. I'm quite ready. 

Kenyon. Then be good enough to tell me what 
brings you here? 

EoDNEY. I've come to take my mother away. 

Kenyon [Looking at Margaret]. And does she 
wish to go? 

Margaret. John! 

Kenyon [Turns with triumphant smile to Rod- 
ney]. Well? 

Rodney. She ivill go. 

Kenyon. She will not go. No one shall take 
her from me. 

Rodney. Yes : I shall take her from you. 

Kenyon. It can't be done. 

Rodney. It is done. 

Kenyon. Done? What do you mean? 

Rodney. Her life with you is ended. 

Kenyon. You're mad! She does not wish to go. 

Rodney. She ivill go. [Rises commandmgly'\ 
John Kenyon, this matter is beyond you, or me, or 
even her. You may find the instinct of a mother 
for her child benumbed, but killed — never! Arouse 
it and she herself can't stand against it; — it sweeps 
her beyond love of man, or thing, or even self. 
This divine madness is stirred within this woman. 
I know it! I am from her and of her, and I tell 
you she will go. Nothing human can prevent it! 



OUT YONDER. 47 

Kenyon. I shall prevent it! You talk of in- 
stinct — what about her heart? Does she owe noth- 
ing to herself? — to me? — but all to you? 

EoDNEY. What she owed her children you robbed 
them of; what she owes to you I will reckon for 
her; as for herself she owes much she has not paid, 
and I am here to help her. 

Kenyon. She needs no help from you. She 
knows what she owes herself. / taught her years 
ago. And let me tell you, her future is her own 
and mine. So leave her in peace — and go ! 

KoDNEY. You ask a son to leave his mother in 
dishonour? 

Kenyon. What dishonour is there in living with 
the man she loves? 

Rodney. Ugh! Don't class her with the "af- 
finity" brigade. One respects more an honest sin- 
ner. What if you found your mother under such 
conditions as these ? 

Kenyon. Leave my mother out of it. 

Rodney. Why? 

Kenyon. I prefer it. 

Rodney. I merely suggested your mother's name 
for mine. 

Kenyon. And I object. 

Rodney. You object to my saying that if some- 
one kept your mother as a pet in a pretty cage ? 

Kenyon. Be silent ! 

Rodney. — to serve his pleasure at ample 
wages ? 



48 OUT YONDER. 

Kenyon [Advancing]. Stop or I'll 

EODNEY [Ironically eye to eye with him]. 
Whyf . . . I'm supposing tliey loved each other — 
then Where's the dishonour in it? 

Kenyon [Pulling himself together]. Why split 
hairs with you. We've a right to take happiness 
where we find it. That's been our motto, and 
we've little fault to find with it. 

KoDNEY. So you think she's been happy, do you? 

Kenyon. Happy? Ask her! [Kenyon turns to 
Margaret confidently.] 

Margaret. You know I've been happy. 

Kenyon. Do you believe it now? 

Eodney. Do you? ... If her nature had been 
coarse wouldn't you have sickened of her long ago? 
with a nature like hers — sensitive to its atmosphere 
as a flower, unused to indignity or slight — think 
Avhat she must have suffered under the contempt 
and scorn of the life you led her to ! Loving com- 
panionship as she does, think of her driven to soli- 
tude except for the companionship of declassee 
women, or the degrading patronage of some titled 
cocotte; with nothing for consolation but your pu- 
trid affinity creed. And this has been her life — 
year after year — with no hope before her until time 
should benumb her suffering. How? By hrutal- 
ising her! And you tell me she's been happy! 
[Rushes on] Is she not a woman? — has -she not 
longed for children's voices, and the patter of little 
feet? Yet who would be the mother of bastards? 



OUT YONDER. 49 

[Ken YON protests.] That's what the world still 
calls them no matter what afi&nity may say. Then 
where must her heart have turned? Somewhere! — 
somewhere! Then where? I believe she has 
stretched out her arms to us — a hundred — a thou- 
sand times; to us — ^the children she had borne and 
turned her back upon. [Turning suddenly/] If you 
doubt it, look at her! . . . And you tell me she's 
been happy ! Happy ! — starving for love ! 

Kenyon. She had my love. 

Rodney. She couldn't trust it. 

Margaret [Quicldy], No, no, that's false 

Rodney [Gently']. Is it? Then look into your 
heart, mother, and tell me this: Have you never 
feared the future? Never been conscious of a vague 
dread that there might come a day when he, on 
whom you had staked everything, might find you 
less engaging? — that your hold on him might 
weaken? — ^your life become more empty — until, 
springing to your mirror, you have gazed through 
it and beyond it into the future ; then turned away, 
with an ominous sense that the best was already 
behind you? 

Margaret. That comes to every woman. 

Rodney. Not as it has to you, mother. The 
honest wife accepts it with a sigh, perhaps, but 
never with a moan ; but the gambler in life who has 
staked everything on chance, borrowing of the fu- 
ture to keep in the game to-day, such a player can't 
ajfford to lose, and when she sees what she has 



50 OUT YONDER. 

slipping from her^ she has reason for the fever in 
her blood and the sob in her heart. God help her ! 
Could it be otherwise? You know, tell us what 
you know! 

Kenyon [To Margaret]. But surely you could 
trust mp love? 

EoDNBY [Sternli/]. Trust a love which made of 
her an outcast? Trust a love which has thrust 
this moment on her? Think of it! Here am I, 
her own son, arraigning her, torturing her, strip- 
ping her heart bare that you may see your handi- 
work. 

Kenyon. Is it a higher love that tortures her like 
this? 

Rodney. If I have made her realise what she owes 
to you — if I have voiced the cry of her true self — 
then I have not been cruel. 

Margaret. But, Eodney, in spite of all you say, 
I've been happier than in the old life ; that, at least, 
is true. 

Rodney. No, mother, even that cannot be true. 
You fled from duty hoping to find happiness else- 
where, but you can't have found it. There's no 
such favoured corner of life. You were but fleeing 
from the presence of God out into His wilderness ; 
— exchanging the bread and bitter herbs for the 
herbs only. Mother, mother, if only you could see 
that life's not a game of chance! Its very essence 
is law, and you can't get away from it ! We're born 
to duty ; it's a common debt, and each must pay his 



OUT YONDER. 51 

part — sooner or later — somehow — somewhere — for 
so it is written ! 

Kenyon. I deny it! If life has a law it's this: 
"Be just to yourself before you're generous to 
others.'' She was bound to think of herself; only 
fools bankrupt themselves for others. 

KoDNEY. Then all who have sacrificed themselves 
for others have been wrong. Duty is an empty 
word — there are no heroes and no martyrs. . . They 
who have gone down with their ships or stood to 
their guns were but fools — fools all, these men and 
women we have honoured ... She was wiser than 
they — she who thought only of herself. The world 
is ^Tong and she was right — she and that other 
mother who flung her children to the wolves that 
she might save herself! 

Margaret [Shrinking as if struck amd covering 
her face]. Ugh! 

[As Margaret utters this exclamation of 
horror and contrition^ E^enyon, stung 
and aghast y and sympathetic, starts totv- 
ards her impulsively.'] 
. Kenyon. It's false — a lie ! Margaret ! 
EoDNEY [Intercepting him] . No ! 
Kenyon. Stand aside! [With threatening ges- 
ture.] 

KoDNEY. You shall not! 
Kenyon. She's mine! 

[Rodney unth soAyage cry springs for 
him.] 



52 OUT YONDER. 

Margaret {Intervening'] . Rodney ! — John ! — 
[Thetf just oatch themselves.] For my sake! 

Rodney [Graduallp controlling himself]. Yes — 
yes — for — ^your sake. But he — ^must go — or we. 
The sight of him there maddens me ! 

Margaret. Remember that I love him. 

Rodney. And do you remember that — I — hate — 
him! [Turns away up stage.] 

[There is a slight pause then. Margaret 
go&s to Kenyon and laps hand upon his 
arm.] 

Margaret. John, dear, I know my son is bitter 
— ^terribly bitter, but can you blame him — ^you 
who would not have your mother mentioned in this 
matter, while his mother has been debated like a 
slave in the market-place; her very soul stripped 
bare for discussion. But he has spoken as a son 
should, and as a mother I love him for it. . . Yet 
what it has been to me no one can ever know; 
there can't be a torture in hell more hideous than 
I've passed through. Every feeling and faculty 
seems racked and torn — no human being could 
come through it and be the same — and I'm not — 
I'm conscious of being different — ^things seem dif- 
ferent — I feel them in another way. . . There's no 
use talking of the past — ^you've been tender — and 
kind — and faithful, and I shall never, never cease 
to be grateful to you or to love you with all my 
heart. 



OUT YONDER. 53 

Kenyon. But surely, you're not weakening! 
You're not thinking — what are you thinking? 

Margaret. It couldn't ever be the same, dear, 
after to-day ; you must feel that, too. Something's 
gone out of it, or something's shattered it — I don't 
quite know. ... I only know it's different; I 
feel a sort of strange consciousness regarding you 
— almost as if you were someone else. 

Kenyon. But I'm not — I'm the same, and always 
will be. 

Margaret. No — ^there's somehow a difference — 
that makes all the difference. 

Kenyon. You're upset — overstrung — that's all 
it is. 

Margaret. No, dear — ^that's not all it is. A mist 
has come between you and me — ^you seem further 
away. 

Kenyon. No, no, Margaret ! — don't say that. 

Margaret. Yes, — yet I never needed help and 
strength as I do now. I feel as if my sight were 
failing me — and I need to be led. 

Kenyon [Stretching out his hand]. Margaret! 

Margaret. I can't, John. It's not pour help I'm 

groping for — I feel Oh, John, try to forgive 

me! I feel I need to be led away from you. 

Kenyon. Margaret — ^you don't know what 
you're saying. 

Margaret [With abandon]. DonH I — when it 
breaks my heart? 

Kenyon [Tenderly^ amd stretching mtt his 
arms ] . Margaret ! 



54 OUT YONDER. 

Margaret. No I . . . No ! . . . [After struggle 
and pause ^ decisively] No ! ! [Kenyon^ sinking on 
sofa, stares at her, speechless. Rodney has heeii 
coming down step by step, from the time she said 
she wished to he led away from Kenyon. He noiv 
goes to her as she stands swaying, and when she is 
conscious of him she spontaneou^sly shelters her- 
self in his arms. Whereupon Kenyon buries his 
face in his hands vnth a" moan.] 
EO'DNEY [Sotto voce]. Mother! 

Presently MarGx^ret opens her eyes and 

turns her head towards Kenyon. 
She regards him with intense sympathy 
and then, drawing away from her son, 
indicates Keinyon by a gesture, and 
then motions Eodney to withdraw. He, 
comprehending her unsh, nods sympa- 
thetically, and then kisses her on fore- 
head and going unhesitatingly to door, 
Exits. 
She watches him tenderly until he disap- 
pears and then gazes a moment at 
Kenyon, to whom presently she goes, 
silently sinking on the sofa. He realises 
her presence, and after brief pause 
reaches out his hand for hers and they 
sit, with clasped hands, side by side. 

SLOW CURTAIN. 

Between Acts II and III three weeks pass. 



ACT III. 

Time : Three iceeks later. 

Scene : A fresh, dainty sitting room in a house in 
Chelsea. Main entrance to room up right, an- 
other door lefty lower down. Two large French 
windows lead to garden as described hy Kod- 
NEY in Act Second. They stand wide open. 
Rodney is discovered lounging in a long 
wicker chair under a tree on lawn, glancing 
through a document. Margaret^s voice, occa- 
sionally 'breaking into laughter, is heard in 
distance. The laughter increases, Rodney 
looks up and smiles, then returns to his docu- 
ment, then, as laughter becomes more and 
more uncontrolled, he becomes affected by it, 
until he joins in with it through mere con- 
tagion. Margaret comes nearer and presently 
Rodney calls out to her in the midst of his 
laughter. 
Rodney. What on earth are you laughing at? 
Margaret [Out of sight, laughing as she 
speaks]. Finch has been telling me some of 
Phyllis's pranks and yours when you were little 
tots. They're the funniest things I ever heard. 

Rodney. What wonderful children all you 
mothers have. I wonder what becomes of them? 
Margaret. But these stories really are funny 
beyond words. 



56 OUT YONDER. 

Rodney. Try them on some other mother and 
see. 

Margaret. Well, anyway, Finch and I think 
they're funny. 
Rodney. Then that settles it. 
Margaret [To Finch]. I think we've flowers 
enough, Finch. Oh, you might get me that branch 
of honeysuckle. What a beauty! 

Finch [Out of sight]. 'Tis a fine one, mum. 
Margaret [Still out of sight]. Now get the 
vases. [She appears.] 

Finch. Yes, madam. [Finch passes tvindow as 
if entering hy an unseen door into house.] 

Margaret wears a simple^ fresh-looking 
dress. A garden apron is fastened 
round her ivaist^ the ends of it gathered 
up in one hand. In the other hand she 
has a pair of garden scissors. She 
saunters towards Rodney^ and pauMng 
at his side, lowers apron and displays 
flowers. 
Margaret. Aren't they lovely? I do love a gar- 
den ! And the rain has made everything so beauti- 
ful! 

Rodney [Looking up tenderly and quoting]. 
"The winter is past, the rain is over and gone." 

She hends down and kisses his hair^ and 
passes on to the house with radiant 
face. 
Enter Finch with vases on tray. 



OUT YONDER. . 57 

Margaret. Put them here [moving some hooks 
on table to make room for tray]. I dare say their 
Aunt Ann took such pranks hardly [d(umps 
flowers onto tray], not being their own mother, 
you know. [Unfastens her apron and walks up 
stage to left corner where she tosses apron over 
hack of sofa near a garden hat which has been 
thrown mito a sofa pillow. During the following 
conversation between Margaret and Finch, Mar- 
garet is arranging the flowers in vases with the 
assistance of Finch^ who places the vases in differ- 
ent jjarts of room, Margaret herself placing one or 
two.] 

Finch. Lor' bless you, no, mum. Miss Trask 
loved their pranks, and she used to laugh till she 
cried when she told about them. 

Margaret. And probably spoiled the children — 
which is just as bad. 

Finch. Oh, no, mum, when she spoke before the 
children she was very solemn, oh, very, mum, al- 
though it was hard for her sometimes, I could see 
that. 

Margaret. Oh, yes, I dare say she was very wise, 
— most people are with other people's children. 
Tell me some more of their pranks. 

Finch. Have I ever told you, mum, about their 
running away and pretending they was ^\dld Injuns 
from Bufealo Bill's? 

Margaret. You mean the time they made a cave 
of coal bricks in the cellar and built a fire in it? 



58 OUT YONDER. 

Finch. Oh, no, mum; that's another. The Injun 
story was when they and Lady Clare, and two 
friends of Mr. Eodney's, who was passin' the day 
with 'im, saddled the ponies and the spare carriage 
'osses while Miss Trask was payin' visits. 

Margaret. That's a new one [placing a vuse]. 

Finch. They stripped the feather dusters for 
their headgear, smeared their faces with straw- 
berry jam for to look gory, armed their selves with 
spears an' shields from the armoury, and mountin' 
their 'osses set out for scalps before any of us knew 
what mischief they was up to. The first thing they 
saw was the dairyman drivin' towards town. 
Whoopin' and shoutin' like young Belsebubs they 
started after 'im. Lord I The poor man was that 
frightened he thought 'is end was come, and that 
the devil had got 'im sure. And he lashed 'is 'oss 
and said 'is prayers for all he was worth. But the 
Injuns came a swoopin' down behind 'im — nearer 
and nearer, Mr. Eodney whoopin' somethin' awful 
and whirlin' 'is spear over 'is 'ead, when all of a 
sudden — just as Mr. Rodney was a catching of 'im 
— and the man was nearly daft and 'is 'oss was 
nearly dead — who should 'eave in sigh but 

Rodney [Who has entered during end of speech 
and stood back unperceived^ gives awful whoop]. 
Who — o — — — — o — o — o ! 

Finch [Starting in terror — then smiling]. liord 
bless my soul, Mr. Rodney, but you do do it natural. 

Rodney. You garrulous old tattler ! If anything 



OUT YONDER. 59 

is sacred to you let it be the degrading sequel of 
that hour. 

Finch [To Margaret]. The poor children, mum, 
was cut off jam — but it was only official, mum, for 
I smuggled it to the nursery inside an extra milk 
jug. [Margaret laughs heartily,'] 

EoDNEY. You silly old Finch! — If I catch you 
again telling tales out of school, I'll — scalp you! 
[Finch laughs delightedly ^ wnd cont'mues placing 
vases about the room.] Here's the transfer, mother, 
ready to be signed, and then this little home is 
yours, and you can turn me out as soon as you're 
tired of me. 

Margaret. What difference does it make which 
of us is its legal owner? 

Rodney. The difference between standing a tub 
right side up or not. The parent should be boss. 
I like the feeling that the home belongs to you. 
So by signing the transfer you're pleasing me. See? 

Margaret [Tenderly]. Very well, since you wish 
it. Shall I sign now? 

Rodney. If you don't mind; — and Finch, just 
witness our signatures, mil you? 

Finch. Beg pardon, sir? 

Rodney. Watch your mistress and me write our 
names on this document, and then sign your name 
here as witness of our signatures. 

Finch [Diihiously]. Very well, sir — if you wish 
it. 

[Rodney signs and then gives Margaret 
pen and points.] 



6o OUT YONDER. 

Rodney. Sign here. [She signs.] Now, Finch — 
write your name here — your full name. [Finch 
looks ahottt.] Here's the pen. 

Finch. Yes, sir, — but I was looking — I don't see 
the Bible, sir. 

Rodney. You don't need the Bible for this opera- 
tion. 

Finch. Oh, don't I, sir? [Raises hand and closes 
eyes] I hereby declare that I, William Finch, will 
tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but 
the truth. 

Rodney. That's right, Finch. Now begin your 
new resolution by attesting that you saw my mother 
and me write our names upon this document. 

Finch [Dubiously]. I suppose it's all right, sir, 
if you ask it of me 

Rodney. Oh, I see. You want to know what 
you're signing — well, I'll read it to you [Pretend- 
ing eo read] "I, Rodney Trask, of London, County 
Middlesex, hereby state and solemnly declare, re- 
garding one William Finch, who has been in my 
service since I was born, that I do now legally 
transfer that service to my dear mother — charging 
her to reduce his wages to their commercial value 
— his beer to one imperial pint per day — and to so 
guide and instruct him that he may own up to his 
breakages, and never again shirk his work, or shift 
any portion thereof to the shoulders of his fellow 
servants; nor sample the wine of the upper table; 



OUT YONDER. 6i 



nor loiter in idle gossip with the cook, or the Bobby 
on duty, or the coachman in waiting; et aU^ 

Finch. Et who, sir? 

KODNEY. Al. 

Finch. I think the coachman's name is John, 
sir. 

RoDNEfY. Al — or Albert is the legal name for all 
coachmen, as is Bobby for policemen — or Tommy 
for soldiers. Didn't you know that? 

Finch. Yes, sir, only I — I — forgot, sir — for the 
moment — for the moment^ sir. 

Rodney. "Agreeing to all of which and sundry, 
the said William Finch is hereby exhorted to sign 
his name in full. Ex anima^ ex cathedraF^ Is that 
all right? 

Finch. Quite so, sir. I don't mind so much 
about the wages, sir — but that imperial pint 

Margaret [Laughmg]. Finch, Mr. Rodney is 
only having his little joke. This is simply a paper 
in which he is making me a present of this charm- 
ing home, and as for you, you are the best present 
of all, and you shall have all the beer you want, 
and talk to whom you please, so long as you talk 
to me about Mr. Rodney and Miss Phyl. I'm very 
cross with Mr. Rodney for playing such a joke upon 
you. 

Finch [Sheepishly']. I ought to know Mr. Rod- 
ney by this time, mum, but these la:^^er people do 
write such stuff one never knows when one's to 



62 OUT YONDER. 

laugh and when one's not ; that's what deceived me, 
mum, thanking you very much. 

Rodney. All the same, William Pinch, you didn't 
deny anything I said, rascal! 

Finch. I thought it was written by a legal gent, 
sir, what was paid to take away my character. 

Rodney. That's all right, — now sign here. 
[Finch signs.] You haven't forgotten that Mr. 
Fenton is lunching with us? 

Finch. No, sir; I've laid a third place. [Takes 
tray loith debris of flowers.] Is that all, sir? 

Rodney. That's all. 

Finch. Thank you, sir. [Ewits.] 

Margaret. I'm always glad when Mr. Fenton 
comes. I've grown to like him so much. 

Rodney. Dick's a good sort. 

Margaret. From what you tell me I gather that 
Phyl thinks so, too; doesn't she? 

Rodney [Laughing] . I know what's behind that 
innocent little question ! 

Margaret. Well, I can't help wondering — and 
wishing too, a little bit; he's such a fine fellow. 

Rodney. But years older than Phyllie. She 
seems a mere child to him, I suppose. 

Margaret. How does she treat him? — frankly 
and naturally — or how? 

Rodney. Queens it over him, just as she does 
over me, and seems to think he exists only for her 
convenience, and he loves it — just as I do, dear old 
Phyllie. 



OUT YONDER. 63 

Margaret. She must be a charming little thing. 

KoDNEY. You never think about her charm — any 
more than you think about her looks — as you do 
with some girls. Phyl is simply Phyl, good to look 
at and good to have about — and that's all you think 
about it. 

MARGARErr. That's all her brother thinks about 
it — I should like to hear Mr. Fen ton's testimony. 
[Pause — she busies herself straightening hooks dis- 
placed hy traAg, and otherwise tidying things.] You 
say you don't notice Phyllis's looks especially, as 
you do those of other girls? 

EoDNEY [Alffectionately]. Now her mother's 
pride is up and I'm going to catch it. 

Margaret [Smiling]. Not at all — for I don't be- 
lieve you notice women's looks — unless they're old 
enough to be your mother. 

Rodney. Oh^ don't I? 

Margaret. Well, are any of Phyl's friends pret- 
tier than she is? 

Rodney. Yes, Lady Clare Richmond, her most 
intimate friend, is far prettier — Phyl isn't in the 
running with her. 

Margaret. I might not agree with you. 

Rodney. You couldn't help it. She's quite lovely 
— everyone admits it. 

Margaret. Has she any brains? 

Rodney. Brains? — I'd rather talk to her than to 
most men I know. 



64 OUT YONDER. 

MARGARErr. I suppose she's gentle, and sweet, and 
nice — or Fhyl wouldn't care for her? 

Rodney. Clare? — {He collects himself and adds 
indifferently^ Y^es ; oh, she's a nice girl — very nice, 
indeed. 

Margaret. Has Fhyl known her long? 

Rodney {Lightly^. They've grown up together — 
her father, Lord Anson, is our next neighbour. 

Margaret. And you — approve of the friendship? 

Rodney [Judicially] . Yes — oh, yes — why not? 

Margaret. I'm glad Phj^l has such a friend. 
What is she like? What is her type? 

Rodney. I'm not much good at describing peo- 
ple. Don't forget, dear, lunch is at one; oughtn't 
you be getting ready? 

Margaret. Y^es, I must go at once. [Making a 
move, then pausing] — Why have you never spoken 
of this lovely girl before? 

Rodney. Oh, I don't know. I've — well — ^we've 
had so many other things to talk about, haven't 
we? 

Margaret. But she's your friend as well as 
Phyl's, isn't she? You^like her? 

Rodney [Indifferently]. Oh, we're good friends 
enough — Clare and I — I like her very much — ^very 
much indeed. 

Margaret. You must tell me about her, I like 
to hear about your friends. 

Rodney. There's really nothing to tell. We're 
all good friends and that's all there is to it. 



OUT YONDER. 65 

Margaret. That so often happens with young 
people who grow up together. They're the best of 
friends — ^and that ends it. 

EoDNEY. Yes — ^^that's how it m — they become the 
be^t of friends^ — and that ends it. But you'll be 
late, little woman, Fenton's due now. 

Margaret [With sudden feeling ^ layimg her 
hands on his shoulders and gazing into his eyes^ 
then stroking his hai/r with one hand] . God help us 
all, dear! [Then breaks away and exits hurriedly 
by door right.] 

[Enter Fbnton.] 

Fenton. How are you? 

KoDNEry. Been making a fool of myself. 

Fenton. What's up? 

RoDNEiY. Betraying myself to the mother about 
Clare. 

Fenton. How was that? 

Rodney. Forgot myself — and practically told her 
— idiot that I am. 

Fenton. Duplicity is not in your line. How has 
the mother been? 

Rodney. She's making a brave fight and Ken- 
yon's still playing fair — I'll give him credit for 
that. But, Dick, w^hat if he should waver? I'm 
dreading it every hour of every day — for she loves 
him and she's a woman. 

Fenton. But she loves you — and she's a mother. 

Rodney. All the more reason why Phyl should be 
here doing her part. 



66 OUT YONDER. 

Fenton. Then why not tell Ph^i, as I've said 
fift}^ times? Not everything all at once, but the 
general facts. You'll regret it if you don't. 

EoDNEY. Mother dreads it so. 

Fenton. Eodney, old man, the strain has told 
on you a bit. It's not like you to lack the courage 
of your convictions. Phyl should be here, and 
she'd be the first to say so if she knew ; besides it's 
safer to risk telling her than not telling her — for 
with all your effort to hide things, it's long odds 
against you; and the wonder is your luck has 
served you until now. But don't risk it any 
longer. Act on your own judgment — the mother 
will be grateful in the end. 

Rodney. Of course I know you're right, Dick. I 
know it's risking too much and I'll tell the mother 
so, after lunch, and what's more, I'll see Phyl this 
very daj^ and have it over. 

Fenton. That's like your old self. It's all very 
well having your address at joviv Chambers, but 
more and more people will come to know of your 
home here — and some day it would reach Phyl's 
ears and then all the fat be in the fire. That's how 
things happen nine times in ten. so why gamble on 
the odd chance? 

EoDNEY. The blow to Phyl will be awful. 

Fenton. Could Lady Clare help you? — does she 
know about it? 

Rodney. Nothing; I simply couldn't tell her. 
She's got her idea of our mother from Phyl, natur- 



OUT YONDER. ^1 

ally enongli, and I couldn't bring myself destroy it. 
[Lool's at watch] By Jove! — it's nearly one. 
[starts to ewit.] 

Fbnton. Have I time for a cigarette in the gar- 
den ? 

KoDNEiY. Ten minutes. I'll join you there. 
[Exits left.] 

FentO'N takes cigarette from how^ lights 
it and strolls to garden and disap- 
pears. 
A pause — then door opens and Finch 
ushers in Phyl, unth nose in air — and 
Clare. 
Phyllis. Upon my word, Willie Finch, I don't 
understand this. A^Tij^ on earth has my brother 
taken this house? Has he given up his Albany 
Chambers? 

FiNOH. Given them up, miss? Yes, miss, yes. — 
you see Mr. Kodney found them so — ^so inconven- 
ient, — there wasn't any garden. 

Phyllis. Garden? What does he need a garden 
for — in business? 

FiNOH. I don't know, miss, now that you put 
it to me, I really don't know [brightly] except it 
was the doctor's orders, miss. 

Phyllis. Why? — is my brother ill? 
Finch. No, miss, — he isn't exactly ill; — it was 
to keep him from being ill. That's why he needed 
a garden. 



68 OUT YONDER. 

Phyllis. Its very odd. He's never said a word 
about this house. 

Finch. Very likely not, miss. He wouldn't wish 
to worry the family. 

Phyllis. And the garden has evidently done its 
work, for he is able to be up and about. 

Finch. Quite so, miss. As I told you, Mr. Rod- 
ney's gone out for the day, and he said I was not 
to expect him till dinner — and even then he might 
be a bit late. And he will be that disappointed, 
miss, when he hears he's missed you — ^you and 
Milady. 

Phyllis. No doubt; but you must break it to 
him gently. 

Does Mr. Fenton come here often? 

Finch. Mr. who, miss? — ^begging your pardon? 

Phyllis. Mr. Fenton. 

FiNOH. Mr. Fenton? 

Phyllis. Yes. [Spells with slow emphasis'] 
F-e-n-t-o-n, Fenton. 

FiNOH. Oh, Mr. Fenton! Well, I think I li(we 
seen Mr. Fenton here now that you ask me, — ^yes, 
I'm almost sure I have. 

Phyllis. Does he come to lunch sometimes? 

Finch. Ye-es, I think that he has been here to 
lunch. 

Phyllis. Is he coming to-day? 

Finch. To-day, miss? 

Phyllis [Spells']. T-o to, d-a-y, to-day. Do you 
grasp it, Willie Finch? 



OUT YONDER. 69 

Finch. The fact is, Miss Phyl, I'm a bit flusi- 
tered. [She shows mock surprise.^ You see, Miss 
Plijl, I've an errand to do for Mr. Rodney — and I 
ought to be off this very minute, and I don't like 
to hurry you, miss, you and Milady — and it flus- 
ters me a bit. 

PhyIxLIS. How long will this important errand 
take? 

Finch. I fear I can't get back before tea-time, 
miss. 

Phyllis. Then who will serve us lunch? 

Finch. Lunch, miss? 

Phyllis. Lunch. 

Finch. Lunch? 

Phyllis. Well, luncheon, if you prefer the more 
formal word for a light repast, — and not so light 
either, for I'm famished. 

Finch. Then you've come up from the country 
this morning, miss? 

Phyllis. Of course, for shopping, — and I sent a 
telegram to Mr. Rodney to say we would lunch 
with him at his chambers. 

Finch. But perhaps he's expecting you there, 
you might try, miss. 

Phyllis. Thank you, but we've been there; — no 
one answered the bell, and at the porter's lodge they 
said you have the key! 

Finch. That's right. Miss Phyl, that's right. 
[Unctuously^ Whenever I lock the door I always 



70 OUT YONDER. 

take the key. But it couldn't have been the porter 
who gave you this address, miss? 

Phyllis. No, he knew nothing — or pretended 
not to — so I thought of Mr. Fenton, and looked 
him up. 

Finch {Quickly}. Did you find him, miss? 

Phyllis. No, but his valet, Turley, was fortun- 
ately there, and we got the address from Mm. 

Finch {Fiercely}. From Turley? {Blandly'] I 
Avonder how Turley happened to know it? 

Phyllis. He didn't at first — no one seems to 
know anything about this house — but when I told 
him it was necessarv for me to find Mr. Fen ton, he 
remembered a note which you had brought Mr. 
Fenton this morning, and he ventured to consult it 
and then told me that his master loas lunching 
irith Mr. Rodney at this address to-day. So now 
what have you got to say for yourself, Willie Finch? 

Finch. Oh; that explains everything, Miss 
Phyl. Mr. Fenton i^ lunching with Mr. Rodney — 
that's quite right — but they have gone to Mr. Rod- 
ney's club ; — you know Mr. Rodney is taking all his 
meals at his club — there isn't so much as a bit of 
cheese in this place, more's the pity. 

Clarei has been looking about and has 
seen and raised the garden apron and 
hat tvith evident pain. She covers it 
as best she can. 

Lady Claee. Phyl, don't let us wait here. It's 
no use. 



OUT YONDER. 71 

Finch. That's what I've been saying, Milady. 
[Begins to move toimirds door.^ 

Phyllis, l^ou must take me for a fool, Willie 
Finch. I'm going to understand things before I 
leave this house. Why has Mr. Kodney taken it? 
What's all this nonsense about the doctor? And 
why have you been lying like a trooper, William 
Finch? — Y" o u hoary-headed old sin- 
ner I 

Lady Clare. Oh, don't stop asking questions, 
Phyl I Really, I feel the need of something. 

Phyllis. You poor thing I You're as white as 
a sheet. Here, Finch, get a glass of wine at once. 

Lady Clare [Impetuously]. Xo, no I I don't 
want it — I won't take anything here I Come — come 
away I I'll be all right in the fresh air. [Sta7i;s 
for door. Finch hurries to open it] Do come, Phyl, 
won't you? 

Phyl hesitates, then turns to follow, 
ivhen door opens and Margaret comes 
in. Phyl gazes amazed. Finch turns 
and sees. 

Finch [Impulsively]. Oh, dear! oh, dear! What 
damned luck! [Exits.] 

Phyllis [To Margaret]. May I ask who you 
are, and what you are doing in my brother's house? 

Margaret. Your brother! You are his sister! 

Phyllis. I am Mr. Trask's sister — and you? 

Lady Clare [Intervening]. Phyl — Phyl, dear — 
let us go. 



12 OUT YONDER. 

Phyllis \To Margaret]. You seem to be at 
home here, madam; what does it mean? 

Clare moves up stage to window ^ as if 
for air; at Margaret's next words she 
turns towai^ds speakers and listens in- 
tently. 

Margaret. I — knew your brother when he was 
a child. I — I am a relation of his — and — ^yours. 
I, too, come from Kimberley. 

Phyllis. Oh! I beg your pardon. I hadn't 
heard — I haven't seen my brother for several days. 
Are you staying here? 

Margaret. Staying here? Oh, yes. This house 
is mine. 

Phyllis. Yours? Finch seemed to think it was 
my brother's. 

Margaret. He knew better. 

Phyllis. But why is Finch here? 

Margaret. He knew me out in Kimberley — once 
served in my family; so when your brother took 
this house for me he kindly put Finch into it. 

Phyllis. Oh, 1 see. Lent him to you. But why 
has my brother never spoken of all this? 

Margaret. I asked him to w^ait; I have been 
under a great strain and felt unable to — to meet 
anyone. 

Phyllis. But what relation are you to us? 

Margaret [After momentary hesitation']. I — er 
— inside your locket is a portrait of your mother. 
I remember it well. She gave it to her husband 



OUT YONDER. 73 

soon after they were married. Do you see no re- 
semblance between her and me? 

Phyllis. That's it I I was trying to think where 
I'd seen you — ^your face seemed so familiar to me. 
You really are very like — except that you^re older. 
You knew my mother ! Tell me about her — every- 
thing — every single thing you can recall. \_Leads 
Makgaret to sofa and tvaits eagerly.] 

Margaret [Indicating locket] . You always wear 
this? 

Phyllis. Always. Day and night. 

Margaret [Tenderly]. Do you? You love her 
so much? 

Phyllis. Far more than I love anyone, even 
Rodney. 

Margaret. Faults and all 

Phyllis. I can't imagine her having faults — 
though, of course, she must have had. But tell me 
of her — ^you knew her ivellf [Margaret nods.] 
What relation were you — cousins? 

Margaret. Even closer than that. 

Phyllis [Eagerly]. You — you don't mean sis- 
ter ? My mother had a sister? [She looks at 

medallion again.] But why have you not come 
before? 

Margaret. It was not possible. 

Phyllis. But why have they never told us about 
you? 

Margaret. That — that your brother will ex- 
plain. 



74 OUT YONDER. 

Phyllis. Tell me about my mother — everything 
you can remember. 

Margaret. Ah, that would be a long story. 

KoDNEY and Fenton appear together out- 
side coming toicards door. They are 
dismayed at sight of Clare — then of 
Margaret and Phyl. Eodney^, touch- 
ing Clare on the shoulder ^ beckons her 
to come outside, ^he follows hiin and 
all disappear. 
Phyllis [Shoiving miniature]. Is this like her? 
— was she as lovely as this? What beautiful eyes, 
what a saintly face I Is it really like her? 

Margaret. It was thought to be at the time. I 
don't suppose you remember her at all? You were 
so tiny when she — passed out of your life. 

Phyllis. Sometimes I think I do — a little^ but 
I can't be sure. You see, I heard so much of her 
from Finch and my Aunt Ann — and I've had this 
picture since I can remember — and have grown 
up thinking about her always — always — and she's 
so real to me that I can't be sure whether I really 
remember her or only think I do. Oh, if only she 
had lived I — it would have been so much to me ! 

Margaret. But surely your aunt has taken your 
mother's place in your heart. 

Phyllis. No, no I — You don't understand. I 
love Aunt Ann dearly, but not in the same way. 

Margaret [Eagerly]. Your mother has a spe- 
cial place — above everyone else — even Rodney? 



OUT YONDER. 75 

Phyllis. Quite different. She's my ideal. She 
has a place apart. And I — well — I may tell you, 
her sister, — I pray to her always to help me and 
guide me and keep me from doing anything un- 
worthy of her. 

Margaret [Impulsively^ with OMguish], Oh, my 
child ! my child ! 

Phyllis. Does it shock you? Do you think it 
foolish? — even wrong? 

Margaret. No, no — not that — not that. 

Phyllis. Why shouldn't I pray to her? She's a 
saint — and I believe she sees me and loves me and 
watches over me. Why shouldn't she — a mother 
and her child ! If I ceased to believe that I'd lose 
faith in everything. 

Margaret. But you musn't forget she was 
human — and had her temptations and failings like 
other people. No one is perfect, you know. 

Phyllis. Her faults can't have been serious with 
that face. Besides, Finch has told us all about her. 

Margaret. But suppose — just suppose — that 
things you'd heard of her had been less kind. Sup- 
pose — let us say — that you had heard she was 
selfish and weak and — Avell — quite different from 
what you describe her, I wonder would your love 
have stood a test like that? 

Phyllis. Of course, I can't tell, but I'm grate- 
ful it wasn't so. 

Margaret. But even if it had been, you — ^you 
would have loved her just the same — wouldn't you? 



76 OUT YONDER. 

— for she would still be your mother. You'd have 
made allowance for her, wouldn't you? — and not 
despised her — and turned from her? I'm sure you 
would — if you knew how she had loved you and 
longed for you all the time and tried her best to 
be forgiven and taken back. 

Phyulis. Taken back? What are you imagin- 
ing? 

Margaret. I'm — I'm imagining that she wasn't 
— well — for instance^ — liappy in her home. And 
that things got to such a pass she couldn't stand 
it — and went away — ran away. But when she got 
away 

Phyllis [With .sharp note of pain]. Stop! 
Please stop! I don't like it. 

Margaret. But I want to test your love. You 
love her as a saint, but that's easy. Had she been 
a sinner, w^hat then? Would you still love her 
could she come back to earth a human being, with 
human faults, and perhaps a human story — even 
a story needing pity and forgiveness? 

Phyllis. No, no! Please don't! — had she been 
different — she'd have been another woman. Let's 
talk of her as she was. To think that you're her 
sister! I'm awfully ashamed of the way I spoke 
to you at first. 

Margaret. Oh, I ought to have let him tell you ! 

Phyllis. I can't understand your not having let 
Aunt Ann know^ you were here — aren't you 
friends? 



OUT YONDER. 11 

Margaret. I doubt her caring for me much. 

Phyllis. That's a pity; but I'll soon make tlfiat 
right. 

Margaret. I suppose you're great chums — you 
and your Aunt Ann — it would be only natural. 

Phyllis. She's a dear I 

Margaret [CoIdJi/]. So Rodney says. 

Phyllis. I don't know what we should haye 
done without her ! She's been as devoted as if she 
were our own mother. Her first thought is for us, 
never for herself. She's the sweetest, kindest, 
most unselfish woman ever born — except, of course, 
my real mother. 

Margaret. Yes — no doubt. She must be quite 
perfect. But if you never knew your mother how 
can you compare them? 

Phyllis. But I do know my mother. Finch has 
told me all about her a thousand times. [Looks 
at miniature] Finch says she was like an angel on 
earth — with an angel's loveliness, and beauty of 
nature and purity. Oh, when I think that that's 
my mother ! 

Margaret [BreaJcing in]. Oh, child, child! 
What can I say to you? It's useless! hopeless! 
You've got to have a cruel disappointment — an aw- 
ful awakening! And — God help me — it's I who 
must strike the blow ! 

Phyllis. Awakening ? 

Margaret. And you'll loathe and hate me! 

Phyllis. Hate — youf 



78 OUT YONDER. 

Margaret. You don't know — ^you don't realise. 
I've deceived jou — but I was trying to break it to 
jou. 

Phyllis [With dismay]. Break what to me? 

Margaret. Something too sad — too cruel for 
words. [Phyl sits at attention.] 

Margaret. Phyllis, my dear little Phyllis, some- 
times we call them dead who have passed out of our 
lives. 

Phyllis [Nervously]. Yes ? 

Margaret [With great emotion]. Sometimes it 
would be better were they really dead! 

Phyllis. Yes ? 

Margaret. I'm like that — an unhappy, wretched 
soul come back from the dead! 

Phyllis [Quite bewildered]. I — I don't under- 
stand. 

Margaret. When I was young — like you — I mar- 
ried. I had my ideals and loved my husband. But 
my ideals and my love were shaken — then shat- 
tered. Yet I was only a girl even then, — but little 
older than you. Try — just try to imagine yourself 
a young wife — neglected and shamed and disil- 
lusioned — with life all black and nothing but 
blackness ahead — nothing! You're human — ^you 
need sympathy and love like other people — at least 
a little of it — a little of the sunshine of life. You 
feel that you've a right to it — gTow to feel that you 
must have it at any cost — at amj cost ! Have it or 
go mad! And when it came into my life — I strug- 



OUT YONDER. 79 

gled, yes — but then seized it — and for a time 
revelled in it. But I was never happy — really 
happy, for then I learned the depth of my mother 
love. I would have given anything — anything-rrto 
be taken back to my children. 

Phyllis. You had left your children! 

Margaret. Abandoned everything in my mad 
folly. 

Phyllis. How could you? 

Margaret. That's life. That's where the curse 
of youth comes in. 

Phyllis. I can't believe that. 

Margaret. You haven't been tempted. 

Phyllis. I'd never abandon my own. 

Margaret. [Eagerly], Wouldn't you? Are you 
sure? Can you be sure? 

Phyllis. I don't think I could do that. 

Margaret. Wait a moment! Suppose — well, let 
us say, Kodney — should disgrace himself — utterly 
disgrace himself — in your eyes, and the world 
should turn its back upon him — what then? 

Phyllis. He would still be my brother. 

Margaret. And you'd forgive him, and even 
love him, just the same ! 

Phyllis. I couldn't give up loving him — I 
shouldn't abandon him. 

Margaret. Nor drive him away? 

Phyllis. Nor drive him away. 

Margaret. No matter what he'd done? 



8o OUT YONDEK 

Phyllis [Anwiously] . This thing that you have 
to break to me — it isn't of Kodney? 

Margaret. No — not Kodney. 

Phyllis. Oh, I'm glad of that — I am so glad of 
that ! But then why don't you tell me what it is? 

[KoDNEY, Fenton a7id Clare come mto 
sights Kodney coming to threshold of 
door, the others pausing a little hehind. 
Eodney advances a few steps — the 
others folloicing.] 

Margaret [In even, strained voice]. I have to 
speak of your mother. 

Phyllis. My mother? [Raises her hand to 
locket.] 

Margaret. Do you remember what I said — 
sometimes we call them dead who have passed from 
our lives? 

Phyllis [Breathlessly]. Yes — well ? 

Margaret. Sometimes it would be better — were 

[Rises with abandon]. Oh, I can't do it — I 

can't do it! [Turns up stage and both see Rodney 
and Fenton.] Tell her the truth! Tell iier every- 
thing ! 

[Rodney takes her sobbing in his arms.] 

Phyllis [Going up a little toivards Fenton^ 
loho comes doum^. I don't understand, Dick — you 
tell me. Whatever it is I'd rather hear it from 
you. 

Fenton. Phyl, my poor little Phyl, would to 
God those who love you could bear this thing for 



OUT YONDER. 8i 

you — but you've got to face it — and fight your own 
way through it. There's no other way ! 

[GtiARB moves instinctively towards Phyl^ 
and unobtrusively follows the scene 
with deep sympathy.] 

Phyllis. Tell me, straight out. It will be easier 
for me — and for you. 

Fenton. Very well — here it is — straight out — 
just as you ask. No one has seen your mother's 
grave — have they? 

Phyllis. Stop ! Why do you speak of her? 

Fenton. It is of her I have to speak. 

Phyllis. Oh, be careful — you're telling — of — 
someone — who isn't dead — isn't that so? 

Fenton. Yes, dear, yes. 

Phyllis [With glazed eyes, parted lips^ staring 
at hhn and speaking ivith great effort] . Go on. 

Fenton. Suppose I should tell you that your 
mother — who you have always believed to be dead — 
wasn't really 

Phyllis. Wait — wait! . . . She — isn't — dead? 
Quick! — my head's spinning — I want to hear 

Fenton. But don't forget 

Phyllis. Forget ? 

Fenton. The other thing. "It might be better 
were" 



Phyllis [With wild joy]. Then she's alive — is 
she? Is that it? Is that it? 
Fenton. Yes, she is alive. 

[Phyl reels a little and grasps hack of 
ohair.] 



82 OUT YONDER. 

Phyllis. Alive! . . . Alive! . . . Clare, do 
you hear? — my mother's alive! . . . [Turning 
again to Fenton — anxiously'] You mean, Dick, — 
she's not there — [looking up] but here again? 

Fenton. Your mother is not dead. 

Lady Clare. You see, darling, she never died. 

Phyllis [Repeating vaguely]. Never died. 

Lady Clare. She's been away, that's all. 

Phyllis. Been away? 

Lady Clare. Think of it this way, dear, — as 
though she'd been at Kimberley all these years, and 
you'd been here, but writing to each other all the 
time. 

Phyllis [Joyfully]. Yes — yes — I see 

Lady Clare. And meantime you've grown up and 
she's become a little older, too, but she's your very 
own mother just the same, and longs to take you in 
her arms and never lose you again. 

Phyllis [Excitedly]. Where is she? Where is 
she ! Why doesn't she come ! Why don't you take 
me to her? You know how I love her — how I've 
longed for her ! 

Margaret [With anguish]. Oh, why won't you 
tell her the truth. 

Phyllis [Bewildered]. Haven't you told me the 
truth, Dick? [Looking around on all] Oh, you're 
not going to take it all away again? . . . Why do 
you all look so? 

Fenton [Very tenderly — taking her hand]. 



OUT YONDER. 85 

Phyllis, it's awful to have to kill such joy, but after- 
wards the blow would be worse than if given now. 

Phyllis. The "blow"? What do you mean? 

Fenton. Don't you wonder why she's been away 
so long? 

Phyllis. Well 1 

Fenton. Why have other mothers left their chil- 
dren and their homes? 

Phyllis [Slowly]. Wasn't she happy? — Wasn't 
my father kind to her? 

Fenton. There was someone she thought she 
would find kinder, and with whom she thought she 
could be happier. 

Phyllis. Some — someone — else? 

Fenton. One who had been your father's' friend. 

Phyllis. A man? 

Fenton. Yes. 

Phyllis [With drawn face, and colourless voiced. 
You mean — she 

Fenton. Ean away with him. 

Phyllis [Moans softly]. Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! 
She's a woman who ran away ! [As of heavy breath- 
ing^ Oh! Oh! Oh! [Pause of some length — 
then in conventional voice] Would you mind get- 
ting me a glass of water? I'm thirsty. [Clare 
comes nearer sympathetically , hut without caress- 
ing her. Fenton returns with water. She sips it, 
then hands glass hack to him and makes marked 
effort to speak conventionally] Thank you, thank 
you very much, [Fenton goes up, depositing glms 



84 OUT YONDER. 

on a table near door, Phyl rises and addresses 
Clare] I'm ready to go, Clare, when you are. 

EoDNEY [Coming doimi^. I'm terribly sorry, 
Phyl — I meant it to come to you so differently. 

[Clare has moved up — Rodney and Phyl 
are tvell down.] 

Phyllis. Then it's all true? 

Rodney. Yes, dear. 

Phyllis [Laying her hands on Rodney-'s shoul- 
ders and looking into his eyes]. Oh, Rodney — Rod- 
ney! 

Rodney [Putting his arm arownd her]. Our 
mother has been away — there's no use thinking why 
— there's no happiness in that for any of us. She's 
ours, Phyl, and we're hers. We must live in the 
present and the future, forgetting everything ex- 
cept that she's our mother. 

Phyllis [Turning her head as she stands beside 
him and looking up into his eyes]. I can't grasp it. 
I can't seem to realize it. [Her lips tremble, hut she 
maintains her self-control.] 

Rodney. Suppose you could see her and speak 
to her? 

Phyllis [Shuddering and drawing away from 
him]. No, no! I couldn't. 

Rodney. She loves you with her whole heart, 
and longs for you, and she is your mother. 

Phyllis. I couldn't do it. It would be disloyal 
to my real mother, — the one I've known all my life. 

Rodney. That was only a dream mother, but to- 



OUT YONDER. 85 

day your real mother holds out her arms to you. 
You'll not repulse her! 

Phyllis. Call her a dream mother if you like, 
but she is the mother who has helped me and guided 
me and been always near me^ — the realest thing in 
my life. And what has this stranger done for me? 
B}'^ what right does she hold out her arms to me? 
This woman lolio ran away! 

Margaret. [Tip stage]. Ugh! [Phyl and Rod- 
ney turn.] Phyllis! My little Phyllis! 
Phyllis [After a pause — amazed]. You! 
EoDNEY. Go to her, dear. Ah, go to her! She 
needs you, don't deny her ! Go to her, forgetting 
everything except that she's our mother. 

Phyllis [Stands regarding Margaret with un- 
diminished amazement — then appears for a moment 
to hesitate — she takes a step or tioo forward, stand- 
ing eye to eye nnth her mother, whose face is full of 
pleading, then recoils unth horror^ and says in a 
veiled half voice, as though to herself^ unconscious 
of others] . I can't — I can't do it ! I can't touch a 
woman lilce that! 

[All exclaim.] 
Rodney. Phyl ! Phyl ! Oh, Phyl ! 

[Margaret seems turned to stone; her 
eyes follow Phyl with a dull sort of an- 
guAsh as the latter moves unsteadily to- 
wards door. Suddenly she realizes that 
in another moment her child will he 
gone; terror seizes her; all her mother's 



S6 OUT YONDER. 

love rushes over lier^ rnvd, with a cry of 
grief, she sioiftly intercepts Phyl.] 
MARGAREfT. You Can't mean it — ^you can't — it 
isn't human. 1 am your mother — and you can't 
mean it I Oh, Phyl — Phyl!. . . I want you so.. . . 
Don't despise me ! I was so young and wretched — 
I wouldn't do it now. I'm not really bad, Phyl, I 
never have been. . . I know I did ^T*ong — and 
I'm so sorry ! I've longed for you so all these years. 
Ah, don't turn away from me, dear — you needn't 
touch me — only don't despise me. Oh, Phyllie, 
Phyllie, I love you so — I love you so ! Have a little 
mercy — try to have a little mercy — ^a little mercy ! 
[Sifilcs down< with covered face, sohhing hitterly.] 

Phyllis [In a dull, stunned way]. I'm very 
sorry for you, madam. I'll do anything I can for 
you — but I can't — I simply can't pretend that 
you're my mother. 

[Suddenly realises — pauses — removes 
from neck chain and locket , which slip 
from her hand to floor, then turns away 
broken-hearted, crying in utter desola- 
tion as she starts to exit.] 
I — I have no mother! 

Bums blindly from room. Fenton follows 

her hastily. 
Margaret stands transfixed unth grief — 
looking straight out. Rodney going to 
her from behind puts his arms around 
her — but she starts auxi^y — still looking 
out. 



OUT YONDER. 87 

Clare turmng from watching Phyl^S 
eodt L. regards Margaret with intense 
sympathy and goes slowly toivards her, 
a little to her left. 

As Margaret starts away from Rodney 
CiARE comes dowiv further and gets 
within Margaret^s line of vision. Mar- 
garet suddenly catches sight of her, 
turns her head sharply toioards her, a 
frightened look coming into her face, as 
if fearing anothei^ blow. Clarei half 
lifts her arms, her sympathy showing in 
her face. Then Margareo^s face relates, 
gradually taking on an intensely wist- 
ful expression, and at this response 
Clare holds out her arms and simul- 
taneously they are drauyn towards each 
other — Margaret sohhing in Clarets 
arms like a heart-broken child.] 



SLOW CURTAIN. 



ACT IV. 

Time: The next day. 

Sgeinb: The same as m A\ct III. 

[Enter Clare_, who glances around room 
till her eye lights on her hat and gloves 
which she takes, approaching mirror 
with her hat half raised as Eodney, 
looking drawn and pale, enters.'] 

Lady Clare [Lightly], Oh, Kodney, here you 
are. I'm afraid I must be going now. 

KoDNEY. How can I ever thank you! What 
should I have done without you yesterday? 

Lady Clare. Nonsense! 

KoDNEY. No, it's not nonsense; you gave her the 
only thing that counted with her, at the moment — 
a woman's sympathy. But how tired you must be. 
Did you manage to get any rest last night? 

Lady Clare. Of what consequence is that ! I'm 
so thankful to have been of some comfort to her. 

KoDNEY. Where is she? — where have you left 
her? 

Lady Clare. In the garden with a friend. 

KoDNEY [Going to windoiv]. Mrs. Hildred! 
What is she doing here? 

Lady Clare. I think your mother sent for her. 

Rodney. I don't like the look of it ! 



OUT YONDER. 89 

Lady Clare. [Oompas^onately]. Don't be dis- 
couraged, Rodney. 

EoDNEY. I am^ clean discouraged. PliyPs 
knocked the bottom out of thingsi. 

Lady Clare. It wasn't the real Phyl who spoke 
yesterday. You'll see. But why didn't you tell me 
before — why didn't you trust me? 

Rodney. That first night I couldn't think — and 
afterwards I couldn't speak — I couldn't destroy 
your ideal of her. 

Lady Clare. I understand. But I'm sorry, for 
I might have helped you. At least I might have 
prepared Phyl a little. 

Rodney. I didn't know you then — well as I 
as I thought I knew you. 

Lady Clare. You must let me help you now, at 
any rate. 

Rodney. It won't do, Clare — if for no other rea- 
son than that your father wouldn't like it. The 
story is bound to get about — ^and friends are not 
for my mother and me; we realize that — we have 
no illusions about anything now. 

Lady Clare [Tenderly/]. Poor dear Rodney! 
[Lightly] and poor foolish Rodney ! 

Rodney. Foolish? 

LuVDY Clare. Isn't it foolish to suppose I'm go- 
ing to give up a friend just because you say so? Let 
me remind you I'm an only child — and a bit spoilt, 
and I won't be dictated to by any one. So there! 
I'm coming back to see your mother this very day. 



90 OUT YONDER. 

EoDNEY. No, Clare! Keally you rrmst consider 
the world. 

Lady Clare. Before myself? You don't know 
me. 

KoDNEY. Come, Clare! Be serious. Believe me, 
my mother and I won't be hurt but will always be 
grateful for what you've done. 

Lady Clare. Rodney — Eodney — what can you 
think of me! Do you honestly think I'd turn my 
back on an old friend like you and affront your 
mother and Phyl's? Not if every man, woman and 
child in this big London should howl a protest at 
my coming here! My father will back me up, let 
me tell you — for I know what sort he is. So I'm 
coming back this afternoon, and you'd better 
pocket your pride and make up your mind to be 
civil to me. 

Rodney. Clare! You — you are Clare! God 
bless you ! 

Lady Clare [Seating herself on an arm of 
chair]. I want you to let me tell papa everything. 
He's very fond of you and Phyl, as, of course, you 
know, and he'll feel just as I do about things, and 
he'll want to come and see you when he may. You 
don't mind my telling him, do you? 

Rodney. Tell him everything, — but promise not 
to influence him in any way and to obey his wishes 
whatever thej may be. Is that agreed? 

Lady Clare. Quite — which shows how sure I am 
of him. 



OUT YONDER. 91 

Rodney. Clare, you put new life into me ! 

Lady Clare. Poor, foolish Rodney I Why didn't 
you let me share your trouble? 

Rodney. I'll have more courage for the future. 

Lady Clare [Archly]. Of course I don't want to 
force your confidence. [Ptinishingly] Besides, I'm 
going abroad for awhile. 

Rodney. Going away! [Recovering himself] I 
hadn't heard. When do you start? 

Lady Clare. Almost at once. I shall be away at 
least a year and then come back to be married. 

Rodney. Married! May I ask who the happy 
man is? 

Lady Clare. I don't believe you know him, but 
he's a man of suitable age, not bad-looking, and I've 
known him all my life, and I see no reason why I 
shouldn't be very happy. 

Rodney. I didn't know there was any one — any 
friend of yours like that — whom you were fond of. 
I congratulate you both, and I hope with all my 
heart that you'll be very happy. 

Lady Clare. To be quite frank, I'm not going to 
say that he's not without his flaws. In the first 
place, he doesn't understand me very well ; I think 
he underrates me. 

Rodney. Yet he's known you all your life? 

Lady Clare. I know. It's strange. But he 
seems to regard a wife as anything but a helpmate. 
You'd think he'd bring his trials and sorrows and 
hopes to me. Not at all. He keeps them from me 



92 OUT YONDER. 

as though I were a stranger, and that's disappoint- 
ing, isn't it? 

Rodney. Still, that will come when he knows 
you as you are. 

Lady Clare. You wouldn't have treated me like 
that, would you? 

EoDNEY. Ah, but I've known you so very well. 

Lady Clare. But he says the same thing, in ab- 
solutely the same words — yet that's how he treats 
me. 

Eodney. Don't worry about it. That's sure to 
come unless he's blind and deaf. 

Lady Clare. Then there's another thing. He's 
afflicted with false pride. He's got some notion in 
his head about his family — or some member of It — 
whom he thinks I wouldn't like, and he doesn't 
seem to see that if he and I are one his people will 
be mine, and that whatever he has in life — sorrow 
as well as joy — he should share with me. How 
could I look askance at my husband's people? I 
think that very odd of him, don't you? 

Rodney. He doesn't quite know you yet — but 
that, too, mil come. 

Lady Clare. But can you imagine loving a girl 
and mistrusting her like that? 

Rodney. But all girls aren't like you, Clare. 

Lady Clare. But he ought to know me better 
than that — I'm sure you wouldn't have hurt my 
feelings so. 



OUT YONDER. 93 

Rodney. Not if I had been in his shoes, perhaps 
— knowing you as I do. 

Lady Clare. You musn't misunderstand my be- 
ing so frank with you — we're such old friends — and 
it's a comfort to talk things over. But do you 
know, while I'm sure he loves me — he's strangely 
distant with me — I can see his love, but that's all — 
he never sjjeaks of it by any chance. Now, what do 
vou make of that? 

Rodney. And yet you say you're engaged? 

Lady Clare. Oh, no, we're not engaged — I didn't 
say we were engaged. 

Rodney. Didn't you tell me you were going to 
marry him? 

Lady Clare. That! Oh, yes, but we're not en- 
gaged. 

Rodney. There's only an understanding between 
you, then? 

Lady Clare. No — he doesn't know I'm going to 
marry him, but I am. 

Rodney. Clare — what do you mean? 

Lady Clare [With change to deep tenderness, 
leaning forward., resting her arm along the tahle 
next her^ and looking up at him]. I mean that the 
man I love is in trouble and that he must give him- 
self to it for a time. His interests mustn't be di- 
vided — I see that plainly, so I'm going away until 
he's felt his feet, and then I'm coming back and I 
shall go to him and tell him what you've said to 
me — that knowing me as you do you couldn't 



94 OUT YONDER. 

keep your trials and sorrows and hopes from me — 
you would regard me as your helpmate — that you 
wouldn't have false pride about your people, or 
doubt my loyalty to you or them — you couldnH do 
me that injustice and hurt my feelings so — ^and I 
shall tell him, too, that the only man I'll marry is 
a man who trusts me like that. 

Rodney. Clare — do you mean ? 

Lady Clare [Rising]. I mean, Rodney, that I 
thought I loved you once. I fancied you — I liked 
you, but now I know I did not love you. 

Rodney. Oh! 

Lady Clare. It might have come. I only know 
it hadn't. [With deep feeling] What a woman 
craves in a man and loves with a love that knows, 
is that thing of which heroes are made — that thing 
that makes him master not only of her but her soul ; 
that force which lifts him above her into another 
realm ; that strength which places duty higher than 
love or her — that is a woman's hero — that is the 
man who, calling her, must lift her. Then, Rodney, 
when yoti call nw^ I'll stretch up my arms to you. 
Here I am, dear — wholly and only yours — when 
you call to me. And when that hour comes, I'll 
envy no woman on earth. 

Rodney. Clare!! [Recovering himself .] 

Oh, but you don't realize ! 

Lady Clare [Yery sloioly, and taking his face 
between her hands]. I should be your wife! 

Rodney [Seizes her hands as they slip from his 



OUT YONDER. 95 

face — holdfi them close fc/)^ an instant — recovers 
himself]. But your father? 

Lady Clare. What would any parent think of 
such a son? Could he condemn him, do you think? 
You shall see! Until then we're simply fidends as 
before. [They clasp hands and stand gazing into 
each other's eyes for a moment, then he stoops and 
kisses her hands; she, bending slightly over hirn, 
lightly brushes his hair with her lips. Then they 
break away from each other as though unable to 
maintain self-control, and Clare says lightly — Ivalf 
hysterically] Come — put me into a cab, and then 
go on to the Albany for your letters, it'll do you 
good, [^he takes up her hat and stands putting it 
on before the mirr(/r, a.^ Enter Fextox, ushered 
in by FiNCH^ who folloms, bearing salver with let- 
ter on it.] 

Rodney. Hello, old man — what's up — any news? 

Fenton. Of a sort, ves. I've a letter from Phvl 
for your mother. [Grimly] Glad to see you so 
cheery. 

Rodney [To Finch]. You'll find my mother in 
the garden. 

Finch. Thank you, sir. [Exit Finch.] 

Fenton. Phyl's coming to see her, if she may. 

Lady Clare [To Rodney]. What did I tell you? 

Rodney. In what mood is she coming? 

Fenton. She's willing to take up her duty here — 
thoucch I can't sav she's ecstatic about it. 

K\DY CLu\re. still it's the entering wedge. 



96 OUT YONDER. 

Rodney. Is she coming to-day? 
Fenton. I'm to meet her at the station at eleven- 
thirty and give her your mother's answer. 

EoDNEY. I was just going out, but perhaps I'd 
better not go. 

Fenton. Better let her see her mother first — 
meeting you might upset her. 
Lady Clare. I think he's right. 
Rodney. Very well, then I'll go on to the Al- 
bany, and by the time I get back the ice will be 
broken. I wonder what will come of it? 

Fenton. I think it'll be all right — but we 
mustn't expect too much. 

Lady Clare. It's much for Phyl that she comes so 
soon. 

Rodney. It's more than I dared hope for. [To 
Clare] We must be off. 

Lady Clare [Extending her hand to Fenton]. 
Good-bye. 

[Exeunt.] 
[Slight pause y then enter Margaret from 
garden with Mrs. Hildred. Margaret 
holds open letter in hand. There is 
marked evidence in her appearance of 
lohat she ha^ been through^ hut there is 
none of the conventional presentation 
of sorrow about her. Sadly she comes, 
with a heart that is hreaking, hut she 
comes as the Mother who can stand hy 
the Cross.] 



OUT YONDER. 97 

Margaret. Of course you know what^s in this? 

Fenton. Yes, I don't pretend that it's ideal, but 
it's a step in the right direction. 

Margaret. Indeed it is, poor child! — when you 
think what those words must have cost her I think 
it's splendid. But I can't accept her sacrifice. 

Fenton. Why not? 

Margaret. It's loveless, and couldn't be sadder 
for her than the sight of it would be for me. 

Fenton. What's the alternative? 

Margaret. I'm going away. 

Fenton. Where? 

Margaret. Out of England, somewhere. 

Fenton. Alone? 

Margaret [Tmrning to Rose]. Not if Mrs. Hil- 
dred will go with me. 

Rose. Leave England — ^you and I ? 

Margaret. Why not? Perhaps we could find 
some corner of the world where we could 

Rose [Interrupting]. Try the '^begin again" sort 
of thing? No, thanks! it wouldn't work — trust 
your good woman for that! We could go away to- 
gether — yes — but there's no use in deceiving our- 
selves about the result. 

Margaret. Well, Fve no choice. 

Rose. I can't see that — and your son won't listen 
to it for an instant. 

Margaret. I hope so. I hope to convince him 
that I would be far happier to go away. 

Fenton. How long do you propose to be gone? 



98 OUT YONDER. 

Margaket. Indefinitely. 

Fenton. How long is "indefinitely"? 

Margaret. Permanently. 

Fenton. May I give you a piece of advice?— you 
know I'm a practical man. 

Margaret. Well ? 

Fenton. Don't bother to go abroad. Save your 
time and money and go straight back to Kenyon. 

Margaret. Mr. Fenton! 

Fenton. That's where you'll end, so why have 
auy nonsense about it? 

Margaret. How can you think that of me! — 
that's all over — quite — quite past. 

EosE. Then I for one know less of human nature 
than I thought I did. 

Margaret. If you're doubtful, all the more rea- 
son to come with me. 

EosE [BrcaJxhuj out]. Why, Margaret, I couldn't 
hold you if John Kenyon beckoned ! No one could, 
unless of your own flesh and blood. Margaret, 
do7i't go awa^^ from your son — it's 3^our only chance 
of keeping things as they are — and they're far bet- 
ter this way, dear, and in the end you'll be far hap- 
pier. So stick to it, dear, and don't take chances. 
Don't go away from your son. 

Margaret. You belittle me, Eose, and my pur- 
pose, and the sacrifice I've made. 

Fenton. What is your purpose? 

Margaret. You ought to know. Certainly not to 
make my children suffer needlessly. Eodney loves 



OUT YONDER. 99 

me and would suffer less than PL y 11 is were I here, 
yet at best I should embarrass his life — but the 
greatest factor is Phyllis. Could I still hope for 
her love, then I don't know — but as things are my 
path is plainly marked. 

Fenton. Must you have a miracle I Can't you let 
nature have its normal way? Oh, you women! you 
women I — what ruin you've wrought by your impa- 
tience ! 

Margaret. If I could believe she'd ever love 
me 

Fenton. Even then you'd fidget or you wouldn't 
be a woman. 

Margaret. Oh, you don't understand. She's a 
young girl and she's pitiless — and will be until 
she realizes what temptation is. 

Fenton. She may never realize — she may scor-n 
you to the end ; she may have no instinct — no wom- 
anhood, but you can't know it yet. You can't fore- 
tell it I Give her a chance. Give yourself a chance. 
Come — courage I Take what the gods have sent 
you and hope for the best. You've set your hand 
to the plough — attend to your furrow; y^mr furrow, 
I say. Your ov/ii; not Ro^lney's — not Phyl's — but 
your own. As for them — they're only like other 
folk — why should they be exempt from what's given 
them to do? They may prefer to x>lay at life — 
most of us would — but they've been called to some- 
thing more worth while — leave them to it. They'll 
both be hax>pier in the end, for it's only your sniv- 



100 OUT YONDER. 

eller, and shirker, and la-de-da trifler who misses 
the true joy of living. Let them do their part, and 
you do yours. 

Margaret. But it's not fair! It's not right to 
blight their young lives. 

Fenton. Oh Lord ! Oh Lord ! Oh Lord ! Here 
we swing 'round the circle again. Well, I can only 
advise you. 

Margaret. You're not angry with me? 

Fenton. No, I'm only dizzy — swinging 'round 
your circle. But I must get to the station. What's 
the answer to the letter? Will you see your daugh- 
ter? 

Margaret. Yes. 

How I dread her eyes. I can't forget them. 

Fenton. Her eyes will be softer to-day. I know 
her well and can be sponsor for her. How light 
will come to her I can't foretell, but when it comes, 
she'll follow it. [Exit.] 

EoSE. I suppose this idea of going away comes 
from that precious daughter of yours. 

Margaret. Don't speak of her in that way. She's 
very sorry about yesterday. Here's her letter — 
read it. [Hands letter. Kose reads to herself.] 

KosE. The idea is right enough, but it's the smug 
way she puts it. [Reads aloud] "^^Moreover, Mr. 
Fenton has shown me so strongly my duty in the 
circumstances, that I feel it incumbent upon me to 
take it up." Good gracious! that's like a legal 
document. It's evidently a phrase she's got from 
him. 



OUT YONDER. loi 

Margaret. But the spirit of it's the thing. 

Rose. And listen to this — "I cannot pretend of 
course to the affection I should have felt under 
other circumstances, but I can bring to you loyalty 
and a sincere desire to add to your happiness.'* 
The little prig! — ^^and I trust that in the fu- 
ture '' 

Margaret. No, no ! Don't read any more, you're 
not fair to her. [Reaches out for the letter] What 
if it is a little stilted? 

Rose. A little stilted! My first parental act 
would be to box her ears! 

Margaret. You don't understand her at all. 
You don't know what a high-souled girl she is; — 
and as for me, I love her for her loyalty to the 
mother she's treasured all these years — and if I'm 
not that mother it's my own fault, and I'm justly 
punished. Rose, I'm justly punished. 

Rose [Fairly exasperated]. Don't for mercy's 
sake exalt that girl at your own expense! She's 
lived in the clouds and because we're not all angels, 
like her, she flaps her wings in our faces and 
spreads out her feathers like a glorified peacock. 
It gets on my nerves! Fd like a word with her. 
I'd only ask two little minutes — just tioo little 
minutes! 

Margaret. But can't you see it from her side 

at all? Can't you realize 

[Enter Finch.] 
Well, what is it? 



102 OUT YONDER. 

Finch. A gentleman to see Mr. Kodney by ap- 
pointment. 

Margaret. What is his name? 

Finch. He didn't give it. Madam, but I seem to 

have seen 

[Enter Kenyon. Advances to Margaret 
quickly.] 

Margaret. You? [To Finch] You may go, 
Finch. [Exit Finch.] 

Kenyon. I had to see you, Margaret. 

[Rose sinks sideivays in chair and keeps 
her gase fixed on them; Kenyon speaks 
ardently.] 

It's no use, I can't keep my promise. I think of 
you every minute and seem to be waiting for you. 
I can't get used to it. Don't stay away from me, 
dear — no one needs you as I do. Your children 
can get on without you. They've done it — but I 
can't . . . Don't doom me to such misery. It can't 
be your duty to do that . . . Come back to me, dear, 
come back to me. Don't you love me any more? 
Don't you care that I'm unhappy? [She turns 
away with a groan.] Margaret, my Margaret, 
you're not changed? — ^you haven't been taken from 
me? You love me — say you love me ! 

Margaret. Oh, why did you come? — why did 
you come ! — and just to-day ! 

Kenyon. Why? Because I love you! I love 
you ! I love you ! 

Margaret [Catching her breath happily]. 
Ah! 



OUT YONDER. 103 

Kenyon [Springing forward] . My darling I 

Margaret [Recoiling]. Xo, no I Don't 

touch me ! If you love me don't tempt me ! 

Kenyon. Throw these scruples to the winds! 
They're not real. ^N^othing's real except our love — 
then let's live for it and let everything else go. 

Margaret. No, no! That's what we've 

done — just what we've done, and now I'm a tainted 
thing like a leper. 

Kenyon. No, no ! It's false. You're a woman and 
I'm a man, loving each other and loyal to our love I 

Margaret [Wildly]. Don't tempt me! Don't 
tempt me! 

KosE [Springing foricard] . Margaret ! Margaret ! 

Margaret [Defiantly]. Well? 

KoSE. Kemember your son — Rodney — all he's 
said to you — his loyalty — remember even me, dear 
— don't fail us, you said you wouldn't — you jjrom- 
ised me, don't you remember? Margaret — Mar- 
garet — take care, take care; remember what 

Margaret. Hush! 

[Enter Finch — all stand expectant.] 

Finch. Miss Phyl has come. Madam. 

Rose [Instantly] . Show her in at once. Do you 
hear? — at once! 

Finch [Surprised^ then comprehending]. Yes, 
Madam, at once. [Exit Finch hastily.] 

Kenyon [Indicating garden']. Come with me, 
Margaret. Out here. Let me speak to you. 

Rose. No, Margaret, no! 



104 OUT YONDER. 

Margaret. I'll go with you to the gate — why 
not? 

Kenyon [Peremptorily]. Come, then! [Ewits.] 

Margaret [To Rose]. Eeceive her. I'll only be a 
minute. 

Rose. Margaret! 

Margaret [Turning]. Well? 

Rose. Is it over? Is it past? Do you know 
yourself? 

Kenyon [Off]. Come, Margaret, come! 

M AUG ARET [Turning]. I'm coming. [Exits.] 

Rose [Shaking her finger towards door by lohich 
Phyl is to enter]. And we owe this to you, you 
little Cat! 

[Enter Phyllis. She hesitates and shows 
surprise on seeing a stranger.] 

Rose [Shortly]. Mrs. Trask will be delayed for 
a few moments. [Phyl boics coldly and turns 
aivay. Rose goes to table and fingers books, etc., 
excitedly, then presently ivheels around upon 
Phyl.] How dared you treat your mother so? 
It was shameful! [Phyl tuims with a flash of in- 
dignation. Rose collecting herself presently, adds 
more gently] You can^t be purer than she was at 
your age — no girl could be. She didn't want to 
blunder. She didn't deserve to. But she married 
and had bad luck. [Phyl turns aicay again.] Let 
me tell you few wives have anything else. Some 
pull through and remain good — some don't, — and 
when your turn comes, if luck's against you, you 



OUT YONDER. lOS 

may pull through — but then again you mayn't. It's 
a mere matter of luck and red blood ! 

Phyllis [Stiffly]. I fear you're a biassed wit- 
ness. 

Rose. Sneering's easy, but it doesn't change 
facts. It doesn't blot out what we're been through, 
she and I, and many another young wife. Some 
people haven't a drop of red blood in them. They 
can't know temptation. They're not normal. But 
they're just the sort that hound down those who are 
— those of us who feel — and suffer — and fall. No, 
I don't wonder that you sneer. It's what you 
bloodless creatures always do, and it would be 
fwn/ny — if it weren't so deivilish! 

[During this last speech Rodney enters 
unnoticed and works gradually down 
sta\ge, during following speech by 
Phyl.] 

Phyllis [Letting loose]. Oh, I see! To women 
like you honour is funny and principle devilish! 
There's nothing in it but luck and red blood. The 
normal woman is one who, finding her husband 
neither a saint nor a cavalier, snivels at her luck 
and snaps her finger at her marriage voav. To such 
as you [Rodney makes gesture of protest] the wife 
who clings to honour and duty is a thing without 
blood, lacking even the sense to know that she's un- 
happy — and innocents like me are what we are only 
because we've lacked the chance of being — ^well — 
the sort of creature you admit yourself to be. 



io6 OUT YONDER. 

Rose. Oh, you little brute! How dare you grind 
another woman under your heel like that ! 

EoDNEY. Virtue has its claims, Phyl, but so has 
charity. [Phyl and Rose turfi with a start,] 
She's down. Don't trample on her. 

Phylms. It's she who is trampling — on every- 
thing I've honoured all my life. 

Rodney. But 

[Enter Margaret from garden, pausing in 
doorway unobserved hy others.] 

Phyllis [Rushing on]. No, keep your advice for 
her. Tell her w^hat she and her kind should know — 
that the unfaithful wife remains just that and 
nothing less than that for better or for worse — 
and the shame of it can't be shaken off — like a 
marriage vow! 

Rodney. Phyl! Phyl! 

MarGx^ret [Quietly]. Every word she says is 
true. [All turn aghast.] I'm what I am for bet- 
ter or for worse. There's no escape. No hope. 

Rodney [As if stung unth a\ lash]. Have you no 
mercy for your mother? Would you drive her 
away to struggle on alone? You'd have more pity 
for an outcast dog. [Breaking out indignantly] 
Tie a stone to her neck and cast her into the sea — 
that would be mercy, — but to fling your stone at 
her — to wound her and drive her out of your sight 
is brutual and it shan't be done! 

Phyllis. Here I am, and I've offered to stay. 

Rodney. I know — I've heard. 



OUT YONDER. 107 

Phyllis. Well? 

Rodney. Is that enough? — jonr mothers in the 
quicksand — stretching out her hands to you — 
stretching out her hands to be lifted out. Do you 
do it? Do you throw your heart into it and do 
it? Xot you! With your eyes towards Heaven 
you hold out the tip of your finger to her. You 
say she had no right to stumble and plunge into the 
quicksand, — but, all the same, here's your dainty 
finger tip for her! I've no patience left for you! 
I gTant you she deserted us — that she sinned; 
but who are you to judge her? How dare yo-u 
condemn her? Are you above temptation? Are 
YOU strono^er? — wiser? — of finer clav? Oh, you 
untempted women! You self-complacent virgins I 
Saints have sprung from sinners but never from 
you Pharisees! Pass by on the other side. Go 
vour own y^ry — rour mother and I will go ours. 

Phyllis [As if struck] . Oh ! 

RoDXEY. We know what we've got to face; — 
you've taught us that — you whom I'd counted on 
to help us. 

Phyllis [Breaking down- completely — lyiteous- 
li/]. Rodney! Rodney! 

Margaret [Impulsively going to her, then re- 
fraining from touching her hut holding her hands 
near Phyl's body]. Oh, don't! — don't cry — my 
dear — my dear ! He loves you. I know how much 
he loves you, and I won't let him leave you. I'll 
never take him from you — I promise you. And a 



io8 OUT YONDER. 

young girl like you can't be expected to see things 
as lie does, I understand that and I'll try to make 
him see it too. There^ — there — don't grieve about 
it any more. It's my fault. I've brought it on 
you. I'll go out of your life, my little Phyl, I'll go 
out of your life. 

KosE [In desperation — losing all self-control]. 
That's it! We're rats in a pit! Give one of us a 
chance to escape there's always someone to thrust 
us back! [Pointing to Margaret] She's only 
human vermin, thrust her back — fling her back into 
the pit. That's the way [to Phyl] — that's yonr 
way — and I hate you for it! 

MARGAREfT'. Rose ! Eosc ! [Makes as if she would 
shelter Phyl who stands looking with fascinated 
horror-struck eyes at Rose.] 

Rose [Rushing on]. May you be tempted and 
fall! May you be lashed by scorn! — your pride 
ground into the dust ! And may I live to 
see you flung down into the pit 
amongst the rest of us!! May mercy be 
shown you as you've shown mercy ! 

Phyllis [Recoiling — aghast]. No! — No! [Tunis 
helplessly — looking about as if for refuge — wnd 
then INTUITIVELY shelters herself vn her mother's 
arms.] How horrible! — Oh, how horrible! It's 
like a curse! — Ugh! 

Margaret. She doesn't mean it. She can't. — 
Oh, Rose! Rose! 

Phyllis [Awe-stricken]. She loants me tempted 
— wants me to fall ! 



OUT YONDER. 109 

Margaret. My darling! My darling! 

Phyllis. To think Fve made another woma/m 
feel like that!! 

Margaret. But she didn't mean it. [Breaking 
out.] Rose, why don't you speak? 

EoSE. Y^our mother's right. . . I couldn't really 
mean it. . . I couldn't wish another woman 
that. . . But I'm not made of stone and I 

Phyllis. I know. I drove you to it. 

Margaret. Phyllie — my little Phyllie, your fu- 
ture will have no shadow such as that. Try to blot 
it from your mind — with to-day and yesterday. Try 
to forget everything. Even me. I've no place in 
your life. I've no right to it. . . But I'm not going 
back to the "rat pit." I've been lifted out of that. 
[Very tenderly'] I'm going to live in a dreamland 
— dreaming of Kodney and you — living for you. 
You've lived with a dream-mother all your life, 
you'll understand what I mean and how real it will 
be — and what a consolation and a help. . . So 
good-bye, little Phyl, little daughter — good-bye. . . 

KOSE [Breaking in toith pleading voice]. If only 
you knew her as I do ! If only you could know her ! 

Phyllis. I do! I do! [To Margaret] Oh, I do 
know you now ! . . . Y^ou're tender and loving as I 
knew my mother would be ! . . = Y'ou won't go away ! 
you won't leave me? I need you so — I need you 
so 

Margaret. Phjdlie! Phyllie! 

Phyllis. You are my mother — my own true 



no OUT YONDER. 

mother, and I can't let you go — I can't lose you 
now. . . The other's gone — the dream -mother. . . 
[As if ic'itli some sudden coin prehension; with wwe, 
and very tenderly'] She took your place — kept it 
for YOU — trained me to love you — but now YOu're 
come she's gone I [During last words Phyl extends 
her arms. Margaret, greatly moved, stands hesi- 
tating.] 

Phyllis. Can't you forgive me? "Won't you take 
me? \With a cry of joy Margaret clasps Phyl in 
her arms. . . KoSE gives a little hysterical gasp of 
delight, then nodding good-bye to Rodney, moves un- 
observed by Margaret and Phyl to garden en- 
trance. Rodney joins her and they exit together 
into garden, i^assing out of sight, in the direction 
that Margaret passed ivith Kenyon. As Margaret 
presently loosens her arms from ahotit Phyl and 
is leading her towards sofa, the door from corridor 
is opened by Finch and Fenton enters, followed 
by Miss Trask.] 

Fenton [As he enters]. May we come in? [Mar- 
garet starts and her face takes on an anxious, ques- 
tionin g expression. ] 

Miss Trask [Coming quickly forward with hand.9 
outstretched]. I'm Aunt Ann. 

Margaret [After half perceptible pause, taking 
her hands and for a moment looking earnestly into 
her eyes]. How can I ever thank you I 

Miss Trask [Brightly]. By sharing them with 
me sometimes. 



OUT YONDER. in 

EoDNEY [As he re-enters with glad sicrprise]. 
Aunt Ann ! [Embraces her affectionately.] 

Miss Trask [Continuing to Margaret]. And you 
must begin at once 

EODNEY [Interrupting with exuberance of spir- 
its']. What is this wilful old lady demanding? 

Miss Trask. For one thing, that you assume a 
semblance of respect for her, if you don't feel it — 
and next [laying her hand on Margaret's] that you 
bring my dear sister down to Brentley — not one of 
your flying week-ends, understand ! It must be a real 
visit. Now, when will you come? [While Miss 
Trask has been speaking Eodney has been direct- 
ing their steps up toicards a sofa near garden en- 
trance. Finch having followed Fenton and Miss 
Trask into room for no sufficient reason^ has been 
making pretence of busying himself over trifles y 
while he steals glances first at one and then another 
with beaming face. During the greetings between 
Aunt Ann and Margaret, Fenton has joined 
Phyl, who looks up into his face loith luminous 
eyes. His eyes respond sympatheticaUy and he gives 
her hand a little, understanding squeeze. A few 
words pass between them in pantomime, then she 
turns to rejoin her mother. In doing so she catches 
the beaming gaze of Finch fixed upon her, and 
pauses.] 

Phyllis [Tartly]. William Finch! 

Finch [With alao^ity]. Yes, miss. 



OCT 2 ^909 



112 OUT YONDER. 

Phyllis. Come here! [Finch comes down.] You 
may lay another plate at table hereafter. 

Finch [Delighted]. For yoti^ Miss Phyl? 

Phyllis. For Mr. Rodney ! . . . He^s not having 
his meals at his club after to-day! 

Finch [Disconcertedly]. Yes — miss. [Pause. 
Then brightly ^ but blaudly] You see, Miss Phyl — 
the fact is — the truth is 



QUICK CURTAIN. 



[5713C] 






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